


Transcendence

by ChapterEight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deliberately Not Listing Ships, Multi, Psychological Drama, Resurrection, Self-cest, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 91,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChapterEight/pseuds/ChapterEight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom thought that maybe fifty years of utter isolation in a diary was a small price to pay to gain the advantages of being a living Horcrux, even if he was probably a bit mad from the experience. After all, being mad was no impediment to a Dark Lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU based on the premise that Tom Riddle successfully escaped from the diary in CoS. It will be dark and probably gory in places. It's Tom-centric and not ship-centric, but there could be either homosexual or heterosexual encounters. The only thing I will tell you up front is that it won't be Tom/Harry or Tom/Ginny (even though I like both of those).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle confronts Harry Potter in the Chamber of Secrets.

Time is a funny thing when you aren't real. Or at least when you are not a part of the real world, although Tom was real enough, in his own way. He was a real being with a real personality and real desires and real feelings. It's just that he didn't have a real body or any sort of real communication with the outside world, and under those circumstances time had a funny way of losing any real meaning.

He didn't know how long he had been inside the diary before he'd realized that he had no idea how long he'd been inside the diary.

He had quickly learned that there was no way to mark the passing of time, because his surroundings were only the manifestation of his own thoughts. It was day if he wanted it to be day and night if he wanted it to be night. He was at Hogwarts if he wanted to be at Hogwarts, but he could just as easily think another thought and find himself on that godforsaken rocky beach he had sometimes visited as a child.

It had taken him what had seemed like a long time (although since he had no way of keeping track, he couldn't say how long it had taken with any certainty) to learn how to discipline his thoughts in such a way that his surroundings would remain the same until he actually wanted them to change, even if he allowed his mind to wander to other subjects or places.

What had been worse was when he had discovered that the only things he could invent in his surroundings were things he had already experienced. He could think himself into the restricted section of the Hogwarts library, but he couldn't read any of the books that he hadn't already read. They appeared on the shelf of his mindscape because he had looked at the stacks before, but if he pulled a new book off the shelf and opened it, the pages were blank. He could fantasize about being on a tropical beach, but the sand and water didn't feel real and the details were blurry if he tried to look at them.

In that way he supposed that it was something of a blessing that time had no meaning to him, because if he had actually been able to count every second of his isolation then he would have gone even madder than he had.

His other self—his real self—had communicated with him from time to time in the beginning, but he had never given any sort of indication how long it had been between communications. Real-Tom might have spoken with him every day or every ten years for all he was able to tell, and by the time the communications had stopped he was long past thinking about such things. For all he had known, Real-Tom had last spoken to him only hours before.

He had been shocked to the very core of his being when the date had materialized suddenly in his consciousness.

 _August 19, 1992_.

He had wanted to know what the significance of the date was at first, because Real-Tom had never seen the need to note any dates before. Then the next words had materialized and he had realized that Real-Tom wasn't the person writing to him at all.

_Dear Diary…_

Ginny Weasley had found him inside one of her secondhand textbooks (the indignity of which was not lost on him who had long imagined that one day he would never have to buy secondhand books with donated money ever again). It had taken carefully worded questions and skillful directing of their conversations to learn that Lucius Malfoy had probably been the one to slip him in with the girl's things. He assumed that Lucius Malfoy was Abraxas Malfoy's son, and although Lucius hadn't even been a twinkle in Abraxas's eye when Tom had been put into his diary, he further assumed that Lucius must be a follower of Real-Tom and that Real-Tom had been behind his diary ending up with Ginny Weasley. He had therefore been content to follow the original plan meant for him… until he had learned from Ginny about the fate of his real self.

Things had changed after that.

First Ginny had given him back some semblance of time. He had quickly worked out her schedule from her inane ramblings about her classes, and so he had begun to mark the passing of days and weeks. When she had become so addicted to him that she spoke to him at every given opportunity—between classes, during meals—he had begun to mark the passing of hours and even minutes.

Next Ginny had given him back his own purpose. The more he was able to find out about recent history and in particular about Harry Potter, the more he turned away from the purpose Real-Tom had given him. What did scaring Mudbloods away from Hogwarts matter when Lord Voldemort had utterly failed at the hands of a mere infant? He needed to find out the hows and whys. He began to think of himself as real again, the madness from such utter isolation and intellectual stagnancy slowly slipping away until he could once again clearly define the boundaries between what was real and what was his imagination.

Ginny had also given him Harry Potter, although she had done her level best to deny him that. He had been quite cross with her for stealing him back—after all, what right had she to keep him from Harry Potter when she had been the one to throw him away, to try to destroy him, in the first place? But that was no matter in the end, because Ginny had been the reason the little hero had come down to the Chamber.

The last thing Ginny would give him would be a body.

As he stared at her nearly completely lifeless body lying on the cold stone a few feet from him, he had the fleeting thought that he should enshrine her for all she had done for him. Then Tom smiled at his own romantic notion, because he knew that in reality he would never spare another thought for her after she was no longer in his direct line of sight.

The wand in his grip seemed more substantial now, and he squeezed his fingers around it experimentally. He was almost completely corporeal. It had been so long since he'd had a body that he really didn't remember what it was like and had no idea how much more real he could get at this point, but he could feel that Ginny was still alive, if only barely, so he knew that the process wasn't completed yet.

Still, he gripped the wand tighter, just because he could, as he watched Dumbledore's phoenix swoop down around Salazar's basilisk. What in Slytherin's name was that fool snake doing? Honestly, the continued centuries of isolation must have driven it completely around the bend, and Tom suspected, from his interactions with the beast, that it had never been very smart to begin with.

"KILL THE BOY!" he screamed in irritation. "LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. SNIFF—SMELL HIM."

He watched with mounting annoyance as the serpent thrashed around, knocking down great pillars as it spun. It would be absolutely annoying to have to repair the Chamber after this. He had half a mind to leave the bloody basilisk all by itself for another fifty years to punish it for its incompetence.

When it struck out at Potter, Tom thought at first that it had succeeded. Then it fell over sideways, away from Potter, and, after a few feeble twitches, stopped moving.

He couldn't see what had happened from where he was standing, but he _could_ see the broken fang lying on the floor next to the boy. Dumbledore's bird settled on the cold stones next to Potter and laid its head on his arm.

Tom walked forward until he was standing over Potter and could clearly see the gaping wound in the boy's arm. "You're dead, Harry Potter. Dead," he told him, his emotions only barely discernable in his voice, as always. "Even Dumbledore's bird knows it. Do you see what he's doing, Potter? He's crying."

The boy swayed, and Tom thought that he might fall over. He took a step back in case the little wretch vomited or something equally as disgusting.

"I'm going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

He smiled to himself again. He considered explaining to Potter about time, but he figured that the boy was well past understanding why he would find it so amusing that Tom's first moments experiencing real time in five decades would be spent watching Real-Tom's vanquisher slowly dying in their Chamber.

"So ends the famous Harry Potter," he said instead. "Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You'll be back with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry… She bought you twelve years of borrowed time… but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must…."

But even as he said it, he knew that something was wrong. Potter had stopped swaying, and some of the color was returning to his cheeks.

His eyes fell suddenly on the phoenix, and in a flash it came back to him.

"Get away, bird! Get away from him—" Tom rose his wand to forcibly remove it if necessary. "I said, get away—"

Then the bird took flight, and Tom remained frozen in his surprise.

"Phoenix tears… Of course… healing powers… I forgot…"

He wondered how much else he had forgotten. The years in the diary had been stagnant and monotonous, and although he had attempted to keep himself entertained at first, he had quickly tired of reading the same books and experiencing the same things over and over. When time had no meaning, it didn't really matter if he reread _Magick Moste Evile_ for the thousandth time or if he didn't do anything at all. No matter what he did or didn't do, time passed just as slowly or as quickly, or moved not at all, or all at once—he wasn't sure how to describe it, even in his own thoughts….

Clearly the time away had affected his mind. He sucked in a furious breath and didn't even pause to reflect on how miraculous it was that he was breathing at all.

"But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way." He peered down at Potter and tried to convince himself that he'd feel better about all he had lost if he directed his anger at the boy. "Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…"

He raised Harry's wand and pointed it at the boy's chest.

He heard the bird over his head before he saw it, and it seemed almost as if the diary appeared from nowhere in Potter's lap. Both he and Harry stared at it.

Then Potter's hand darted out and grabbed the broken fang from the floor beside him, and Tom felt something he'd never felt before, even before the diary. His new heart seized in his chest, and his new muscles tensed so much that it was nearly painful. He watched, almost as if time had slowed down, as the diary fluttered on Potter's lap even as the boy brought the fang down.

It flew across the short distance and straight into Tom's chest just before it would have been too late. Tom's muscles reacted a second later and he caught the precious book fast against his body before it could fall to the ground. Potter pulled up short just before the fang plunged into his leg where the diary had been resting just a moment before.

Tom's heart was pounding now. If he had reacted just a split second later… If he hadn't Summoned it in time… If the wand hadn't already been raised…

He swallowed thickly as his wide-eyed gaze met Harry's equally shocked green eyes. It was as if time once again had no meaning, and he had no idea how long they stood there. He didn't even feel the elation he'd thought he would—that he certainly would have, before…—when he felt Ginny die and knew for certain that it was done. He was real.

But it did prod him into action.

" _AVADA KEDAVRA_!" he screamed. Then, without pausing to cringe at the uncontrolled tone of his voice, he span on his heel and ran deeper into the Chamber, away from Dumbledore's bird and the fang and the bodies of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines and descriptions in this chapter are either direct quotations or paraphrases from Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 17, "The Heir of Slytherin."
> 
>  
> 
> There are two main motivators for this story. First, Tom Riddle is one of my favorite characters, and it has always bothered me that Rowling wrote him as so incredibly stupid and slow to react in CoS when elsewhere she describes how brilliant he was. (But I suppose that Harry wouldn't have been able to win in the Chamber if Tom had been as smart as he was supposed to have been, and Rowling did need Harry to win….) So I thought about possible explanations for why he was the way he was in CoS.
> 
> Second, the idea of Horcruxes is fascinating, and the diary Horcrux in particular acts so differently from the Horcruxes we see later in HBP that it can lead to all sorts of ideas. Tom (the diary) is apparently a separate entity entirely from Voldemort (the man), as he doesn't share memories or knowledge with Voldemort, and later on in DH we know that Voldemort himself also isn't aware of and doesn't have any connected with the diary or any other Horcruxes. Plus what if Tom had succeeded in getting a body… He would presumably still be one of Voldemort's Horcruxes even if he was in corporeal form, so how exactly would the mechanics of that work, and how would that change things with both Tom and Voldemort in the world?
> 
> And so this story sprouted from the above thoughts.
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone who is reading my other story, The Other Side, never fear; I have not stopped work on that story. In fact, I have been steadily pounding away at the next chapter and hope to release it in the next week or two, and I don't expect this story to interfere.


	2. Life and Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom escapes from the Chamber and meets new old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, the beginning of this chapter feels almost like a three-ring circus what with all the people Tom has to encounter!

Tom Riddle did not feel fear. Or much of anything, really, but certainly not fear.

Although he had often caused it in other people, he had never personally experienced a racing heart or the feeling of jumping out of his own skin. He had watched others wipe sweaty palms on their trousers and had seen their eyes go wide in terror, but he had never personally experienced those sensations.

Until he had watched Harry Potter almost destroy him.

He supposed that was the difference between having a phobia of an abstract idea, of something far off in the future, and almost watching it come to fruition right in front of his eyes. Certainly he had a phobia of death, but no matter how irrational his thoughts had been, his _reactions_ had always been rather rational. He had endeavored to find a way to defeat death. And he had succeeded. He had defeated his phobia, conquered death.

Now, as he leaned heavily on a damp stone wall deep in the Chamber, bending forward with his hands on his knees and his head hanging down, trying to breathe deeply and calm his racing heart, he thought that perhaps this wasn't the ideal time to contemplate his own psychology.

He was annoyed at himself for reacting this way. He was annoyed that he had been robbed of the moment of elation he'd expected to enjoy when he got a body. He was annoyed with himself for being annoyed.

And he had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

Ginny and Potter would be missed before long, if they weren't already, and that thrice-damned bird would surely go running to its thrice-damned owner. The longer he waited the more difficult it would be to get out of the castle. It had only been a few minutes at the most, so hopefully he still had time.

He took a circuitous route back towards the entrance so as to avoid the main chamber where _it_ had happened. It was really too bad that there was only one entrance to the Chamber, especially when he discovered a pile of rocks blocking his way to the pipe. There was quite a large hole in the wall of rubble, and he peered cautiously through it.

A pair of blue eyes peered back at him.

"Who're you?" demanded the boy.

"Tom," he replied truthfully. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose by doing so.

The boy pulled back far enough that Tom could see freckles and ghastly orange hair. "Where's Harry? And Ginny! Where's my sister?"

 _Ah, so this must be Ron_ , Tom thought.

"They're here with me, but they're injured," he answered, infusing his tone with the urgency and near panic he felt for himself. "Is there anyone else there who can help us? Do you have any professors with you?"

"No," replied the boy, clearly panicking now himself. "Let's make the hole bigger, then we—"

But he didn't get any further, because Tom, satisfied that Ron Weasley was the only immediate threat, aimed Potter's wand through the hole and said, " _Avada Kedavra_."

He couldn't see Ron fall, but he could hear the satisfying thump as he hit the stone floor like a bag of rocks.

It was only a moment's work to make the opening large enough for him to comfortably crawl through. He stepped over Ron's body with barely a glance downwards and quickly crossed over to the pipe leading up to the girl's bathroom. There he met a blond-haired man who was sitting at the edge of the pipe.

"Hello!" he greeted Tom cheerfully. "Who are you?"

"The boy said he didn't have any professors with him!"

The man smiled in agreement. "Oh, I'm sure he hasn't. I'd make an awful professor."

Tom could only stare in astonishment. "Who are you?"

"Well, I don't know," he replied. Then, as if he found nothing worrying about that fact, he asked, "I say, do you know where we are? Strange sort of place, isn't it?"

There was really no telling whether the man was serious or not, but Tom had quite finished wasting time. A moment later he was stepping over another body and up into the pipe. He could clearly hear the lament of the phoenix from behind him, still in the Chamber, and he hurried to levitate himself up to the entrance. Then he stepped out of the sink only to come face to face with a girl he'd never thought to see again.

" _Tom_?" she asked, clearly as incredulous as he was.

He hadn't known her in school. He had learned who she was after he'd killed her, of course, but only because of all the articles in the newspaper and the memorial service they'd for her. Still, he wasn't at all surprised that she knew him—everybody knew him!—even if it was _quite_ inconvenient. She could easily identify him by name to anyone who asked. And certainly she knew now where the entrance to the Chamber was, even if she hadn't before.

He sighed in defeat.

"It was _you_?" she continued, her voice going higher with each syllable, though he wouldn't have said it was possible if anyone had asked him before he'd heard it for himself. Then she spun in midair and streaked out of the bathroom, screeching, "MURDERER! MURDERER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDERER!"

He sighed again, casting a Disillusionment Charm on his body and Muffling Charms on his feet as he hurried out of the bathroom and down the corridor. He slipped into the nearest classroom when he heard footsteps rushing towards him, although he felt secure enough in the strength of his charm to stand just inside the doorway and watch as a group rushed past his hiding place. He easily recognized Dumbledore, although the man was significantly older than he had been before Tom went into the diary—fifty years older, in fact. He could have identified the man by his garish robes if by nothing else.

He didn't recognize the others, although he assumed that the two with orange hair must be related to the Weasley children, probably their parents.

 _Ah well_ , he thought with an easy smile, _fortunately for them they still have five more children. For now_.

After the group had passed by, he quickly stepped out into the corridor behind them and made a beeline for the staircase before they doubled back to look for him. And before anything else happened, with the way this night was going. Fortunately it was the dead middle of the night, so no one else was around and he was able to rush out the grand doors without further hindrance. He made for the Forbidden Forest, because he figured that the first place anyone would look would be towards the gates.

He was breathing heavily by the time he'd made it deep enough in to feel secure about stopping and leaning against a tree. It was very clear to him that this body was brand new and not at all used to physical exertion. Tom absolutely reveled in the feel of his lungs burning and his legs aching. It was painful, but it mean that he was alive, that he was _real_ and no longer practically a non-being stuck in some accursed book for all of eternity.

* * *

He still had a grin on his face and his fingers wrapped around the diary in his pocket when he Apparated into the front drawing room of Malfoy Manor. A house-elf popped into the room, squeaked, and popped back out before he could react to it, so Tom shrugged and settled onto one of the fine velvet sofas. The room had been changed since the last time he'd been here, but he figured that wasn't too much of a surprise, seeing as it had been fifty years. Even pure-bloods redecorated at least once every half century or so.

He hadn't been waiting long before a tall wizard with shoulder-length blond hair Apparated into the room a few feet from him. He appeared angry and disheveled, and he was on the verge of storming out of the room when he caught sight of Tom sprawled elegantly across his furniture. He scrutinized Tom with such intense suspicion that a lesser wizard would have balked.

Tom stared right back.

"I do not believe I have had the pleasure," the man said, finally, his tone stiff with formality and distrust. "Are you waiting for my father?"

Tom had thought at first that he was looking at an older Abraxas, but he quickly realized that it couldn't have been. This wizard was probably only in his late thirties or early forties, and anyway Abraxas would have recognized Tom right off. (He had to wonder, of course, why Abraxas's son, apparently a follower of Lord Voldemort, wouldn't recognize him, even a younger version of himself, but he pushed the thought aside for later consideration.)

He was spared from having to answer when another man appeared in the doorway, apparently having been summoned by the house-elf.

" _Tom_?"

He made no attempt to disguise the shock in his voice. Their eyes met over Lucius's shoulder, and Tom could see the differences in their features now that he could see them at the same time. Lucius's features were sharper than his father's, and he didn't have Abraxas's wide jawline or thin lips.

Then the elder Malfoy seemed to recover himself sufficiently, and he crossed the room in three long strides, shoving past his son in order to kneel in front of Tom.

"Forgive me, My Lord. I forgot myself," he said with every appearance of sincerity. His son made a wounded sort of sound in the back of his throat that Tom could hear from where he was sitting. "Your appearance… You look just as you did in school…. My Lord, how…?"

Tom realized that he was unlikely to be able to pull off a lie about being the Lord Voldemort they knew if he couldn't even recognize his own followers at first glance. However, he was confident that he could manage to simply _omit_ certain information for long enough to buy himself a bit of time to figure out his next move. He hoped that it hadn't been a mistake to come to Malfoy Manor, but he hadn't been able to think of anything else to do, given that he had no money and had little idea about the differences between his own time and now.

Lucius had by this time come to kneel beside his father. "I beg your forgiveness, My Lord. If I had recognized you—"

"Yes, I'm sure," Tom cut him off. "I can overlook your mistake this once. In fact, I believe that I should reward you for the loyal service you have done me."

He removed the diary from his robes and held it near to his body, where the Malfoys could see it but had no chance of touching it.

They were silent for a handful of seconds before Lucius ventured to say, "My Lord, I have constantly thought of how to restore you. Nothing could have prevented me from helping you. I expect no reward for doing what any of your loyal servants should have done."

He was lying, Tom knew. His voice contained an air of flattery and charm that was the hallmark of a man who was trying to make someone believe something that wasn't entirely true, for his own benefit. Tom had practiced tirelessly as a small child to rid his own voice of any such obvious signs that he was insincere.

What was more, Tom knew that there was no way Lucius could have known what would happen when he gave the diary to Ginny Weasley. After all, _Tom himself_ hadn't known that he was capable of restoring himself to a body until he'd actually undertaken to steal Ginny's soul just to see what would happen. Tom would have thought twice about creating Horcruxes if he'd known at the time that they were capable of manifesting themselves as he had now—it wasn't good for business, after all, to have multiple versions of yourself liable to pop out of the woodwork.

He offered the man a cold, humorless smile. Abraxas shuddered from his place on his knees next to his son.

"I doubt that, Lucius." Malfoy looked ready to protest, but a lazy wave of Tom's hand was enough to convince him to snap his mouth closed again. "Still, you were the means of my return, whether you intended it or no, and Lord Voldemort does not forget."

Abraxas finally raised his eyes from the diary to look him in the face. "Will you remain as you are now, My Lord?"

"I imagine that I will," Tom replied confidently, although in reality he did not know the answer. He had long since perfected the art of always appearing to know what he was talking about, and even fifty years in utter social isolation could not make him forget that skill. "I admit that when I created this artifact when I was sixteen, I was not thinking of how my followers in later years would react to a leader who looks as I did then, if I ever had need of using it."

He did wonder privately whether he was legitimately a real person. Would he age? Could he eat? Would he need to sleep? Could he be killed just as any other person could? He would have to test these things for himself at the earliest opportunity.

For now, his answer seemed to satisfy the Malfoys' curiosity on that point.

"Sixteen…" breathed Abraxas, eyeing Tom's features with a mixture of awe and foreboding. "My Lord, I had no idea—That is, I never knew then that you had already—that you had—"

Tom cut him off smoothly. "If I had wanted you to know, you would have known."

"Of course, My Lord. Forgive me."

The elder Malfoy looked properly humbled, although perhaps he looked a little hurt as well. Tom wondered if his position of prominence among his followers had carried over into their adult lives and beyond. Abraxas had been older, in fifth year when Tom was in first, and he had been the first person to recognize the potential of being close to the scrawny orphan who could speak Salazar's language. Malfoy had sought Tom out long before his fellow first years had learned the hard way that it was far better to be on his good side than his bad.

"You are not wrong to think now of my fellow Death Eaters' reactions, My Lord," Lucius offered, his voice carefully measured so as to give the least offense possible. "My father and his friends surely remember their school days with you, but they never speak of it. Before tonight I had never thought of you as—forgive me, My Lord—as someone who was once a normal boy."

"By which I am sure my son means only your outward persona, My Lord," Abraxas rushed to add. "You were never normal, average."

Lucius, who had apparently not considered that his words could be interpreted in quite that way, nodded along vigorously.

"Yes, quite so, My Lord; please forgive me if my words could have been taken as anything else." Tom waved him along impatiently, and he hastened to say, "I mean only that those of us who did not share childhoods with you know nothing about that time. Why, I had not even known your given name before tonight; I had only known your initials, from the diary."

Tom had learned more than he could have hoped to learn even if he had engineered the conversation himself.

 _So I am not known by my given name—Abraxas was so quick to apologize for calling me "Tom" that I truly must not allow anyone to speak of it._ He curled his tongue up against the roof of his mouth as he thought. It was a tick that was undetectable from the outside, and he had long since trained himself to do that rather than to bite his lip or tilt his head. Unless, of course, he wanted someone to be aware that he was thinking about something, in which case he would tilt his head with impunity. _What could Lucius have meant about not having ever thought of me as normal? Can my appearance have changed so much?_

"And how do you think of me, Lucius?" he asked suddenly.

The man's eyes widened fractionally, although it was clear he was attempting to control his expression. "My Lord?"

"Only as your lord?" Tom asked, as if the man had been giving him an answer and not asking a question. "Not as Voldemort?"

"No, My Lord!" he cried. "I would never presume! I could never dare!"

Tom was more satisfied than he could have expressed.

* * *

In the early morning hours of the last day of May, Tom stretched luxuriously against the silky sheets in the Malfoys' best guest room. The room had been constructed to house King William III, as the portrait of Brutus Malfoy had been all too happy to inform him, when William and Mary had been expected to visit Brutus at the end of the seventeenth century. However, the Statute of Secrecy had passed in 1692, so, much to Brutus's chagrin, the expected visit had obviously never happened. So the room had been updated with the latest technologies and luxuries over the years, and Brutus's portrait was hung there in commemoration, but otherwise it was kept mostly the same as when originally built. Some sort of tradition, Tom supposed.

Lucius had installed Tom in the room late the night before, after he had exhausted himself with research in the Malfoys' vast library. He had needed to learn about everything he had missed, as he had told his hosts. If the Malfoys assumed that he was only referring to the past ten years and not to the past fifty, then he was not about to correct them.

It felt indescribably good to lie in a real bed and rub himself against real sheets. And to eat real food and thumb through real books.

Tom never cried, neither from sadness nor happiness nor otherwise, but he imagined that if he were the type of person who did, he would have been a blubbering mess for the past twenty-four hours.

The thick carpet felt absolutely amazing between his toes when he finally got out of bed, and even the cool bathroom tiles beneath his bare feet seemed like an amazing luxury to him. He had no words to even begin to describe the hot water running through his hair and over his body. He did have a few words he could have used to describe the feel of slick soap and a firm hand against his member when he indulged himself in the shower, but he figured that the wordless noises he allowed to escape his throat were much more fitting for the situation than any flowery description he could have provided himself.

He had long since forgot what it felt like to actually experience his senses. Sight, smell, taste, hearing, _touch_ —they had been all but lost to him in the diary, but now he planned to revel in them as much as possible.

His eyes landed on the ornate toilet as he was stepping out of the shower. And really, even the Malfoys' _toilets_ were over the top? He rolled his eyes heavenward for a moment. Then it occurred to him that he had no need to make use of the facilities, nor had he the day before, even though he had veritably gorged himself with every food and drink his hosts had put in front of him. He might have forgotten exactly what having a body felt like, but he remembered the regular occurrence of certain bodily functions.

Researching the exact nature of his newfound body leapt up to number one on his to-do list, in front of finding someone to shag, learning all he could about what he had missed, figuring out what to do about his other self, and setting up some longer term goals for his new reign.

(He scolded himself and reluctantly moved finding someone to shag lower down the list, after learning all he could about what he had missed. He refused to move it any lower.)

Although neither of them had mentioned it the day before, it was clear that at least one of the Malfoys had taken note of the school uniform he was wearing and had taken it upon himself to procure Tom some more appropriate clothing. He gleefully burned his old clothes, not caring at all about the scorch mark he left on the expensive carpet. It took him a few minutes to get used to the slightly different cut and fit of his new modern clothes, but by the time he joined the Malfoys for breakfast he was moving just as elegantly as he ever had.

Three people rose from the table when he entered the room, and Lucius rushed to offer him the chair at the head of the table.

"My Lord, I hope you slept well. Here, sit down and allow the house-elves to serve you."

Tom mentally smiled at the man's over-solicitousness. It had been revealed the day before, after someone finally thought to ask why Lucius had been Apparating back to the Manor in such a furious state, that he had managed to get himself ousted from his position as a Hogwarts governor. Tom hadn't been truly angry—after all, he had never known that Malfoy was on the school board in the first place, and it wasn't like he had formed any plans around it—but he had thoroughly enjoyed acting like he was disappointed and watching the man metaphorically dangle uncomfortably over the fire.

He waited until they were all seated to respond. "I slept very well. Brutus Malfoy had the most interesting story to tell me about my room."

All three Malfoys immediately looked uncomfortable, and Tom delighted in pointing out their hypocrisy. Abraxas had always insisted that his family had never had any contact with Muggles, yet here Tom had found out that they had originally been granted land in England by William the Conqueror and that they had planned to house Muggle royalty in their home. He didn't truly mind their family history, of course, but he always took pleasure in twisting pure-bloods' beliefs to his own needs and for his own amusement.

Fortunately for the Malfoys—or perhaps unfortunately, as it would turn out—the arrival of their morning post saved any of them from having to respond.

Tom could see the headline of the _Daily Prophet_ as Abraxas picked it up.

THREE KILLED IN ATTACK AT HOGWARTS!

He blinked once in surprise. _Three_ dead?

"Give me that!" he demanded, but he had already Summoned it out of Abraxas's hands and into his own before the man had time to respond.

> Two Hogwarts students and one professor were killed in the early morning hours of May 30th. This is the culmination of a series of attacks at the school beginning last Halloween, although these are the first deaths. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who was somehow involved in the events, was moved last night from the school infirmary to Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, but the details of his involvement and of his condition have not been released.
> 
> Headmaster Dumbledore refuses to reveal any details of what took place at the school, but he assures this reporter that the monster has been destroyed. He says that the unfortunate deaths of Professor Gilderoy Lockhart and students Ronald and Ginevra Weasley, as well as the undisclosed injuries to Harry Potter, happened in the confrontation with the beast and that, while tragic, such an event cannot happen again.

Tom dropped the newspaper and slumped back against his chair in surprise. How had Potter survived? He had hit him with a Killing Curse at almost point-blank range!

Lucius, who had his own copy of the newspaper, addressed his father and wife. "Listen to this: 'This reporter is far from convinced by Dumbledore's reassurances; if he has nothing to hide and the monster really has been destroyed, then why has he not released the full details of the events? Indeed, I wonder at Headmaster Dumbledore's presence in the school on the night of these events after the Board of Governors had voted to remove him from his post due to his mishandling of the attacks earlier in the year. It seems that Dumbledore orchestrated to have himself reinstated as headmaster and for Lucius Malfoy, the concerned board member and parent of Draco Malfoy (second year), to be removed from his position as a school governor. Malfoy had pushed for Dumbledore's removal, citing safety concerns and Dumbledore's incompetent responses to the attacks.'"

Narcissa clapped her hands in delight. "My dear, if you put the right words in the right ears, you could easily have the entire school board ousted and yourself reinstated by the end of the day!"

While the Malfoys celebrated this small victory, Tom stared hard at his abandoned copy of the newspaper as if it might rise up from the table and give him the answers he sought.

 _How had Potter survived_?

"My Lord?" he heard, and he looked up to find all three Malfoys watching him. He was sure it wasn't the first time Abraxas had called his name. "My Lord, what are you doing to do? What would you have us do?"

Tom really had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any vaguely recognizable Lockhart lines are modified from Chamber of Secrets, Chapter 17, "The Heir of Slytherin"; and Chapter 18, "Dobby's Reward."
> 
> Myrtle's line is modified from Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 24, "Sectumsempra."
> 
> Lucius's "slippery" attempt at taking credit is inspired by his lines in Goblet of Fire, Chapter 33, "The Death Eaters."
> 
>  
> 
> The information about the Malfoy family history comes from Pottermore. According to this account, the first Malfoy on British soil was Armand Malfoy, who came over with William the Conqueror and was granted lands by him. After that the Malfoys maintained influence in the Muggle royal court for many centuries and built up their fortune by taking advantage of Muggles, and when the Statute of Secrecy was proposed in the late seventeenth century they were vehement opponents of it. However, after it passed they quickly adapted and soon were insisting that they had never interacted with Muggles at all.
> 
> Abraxas is Draco's grandfather's name in canon, as he mentions to Slughorn in HBP. We don't know that he was a Death Eater, but I find it likely that he was at least a supporter even if he wasn't Marked, given Lucius's deep involvement. I don't imagine that he would have allowed his son to join if he hadn't supported Voldemort.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed! Please do let me know what you think and what you like, especially if you have favorite and followed. I always appreciate it!


	3. The Investigations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom investigates himself, and Harry finds himself under investigation.

Tom leaned against the window frame and watched the sunrise through the floor-length window in his bedroom. He hadn’t slept since the night before or eaten anything since dinner two days ago. After hearing the news about Potter, he had been too agitated to give it much thought. He had often gone without food or sleep when he was deep into research or some other obsession, so it wasn’t exactly unusual.

What _was_ unusual was that he wasn’t the least bit tired or hungry.

It was clear that he didn’t have a human body, at least not exactly. Perhaps his body _was_ the Horcrux now, and not the diary? Maybe he had just switched containers?

But he _could_ eat and sleep and wank off and enjoy the contrast between the hot summer air and the cool stone against his skin. What he needed to know was if he _had to_ be subject to the normal human needs and weaknesses.

It was possible that his other self would have some idea what was going on, that he had gathered more information in his travels or in the actual practice of making Horcruxes. Tom only had the knowledge he’d gained up until the time he’d entered the diary and whatever he’d managed to learn in the Malfoy library since his return. It was most vexing to feel as if his brilliant mind had been wasted for fifty years, and he was indescribably jealous that his other self had apparently been able to go all the places and learn all the things that he had dreamed of while he was a student.

 _Well_ , he thought as he pushed himself away from the window and towards the bed where he had left Potter’s wand, _there’s only one way I’m going to learn anything about this_.

The first step, the most important litmus test to determine what sort of thing he was, would be to figure out if he could be injured through normal means. The diary, like all Horcruxes, was virtually indestructible (except, of course, if one happened to attack it with something just as Dark as it was, such as basilisk venom). His other self had never conducted any experiments on him that he was aware of, so this knowledge had always been theoretical rather than empirically tested. Until little Ginny Weasley’s actions had proved it to him when the diary hadn’t been damaged by the water she’d tossed him in.

However, Tom had no intention of trying to drown himself, not in a toilet or otherwise.

The dagger he conjured was plain but deathly sharp. It slipped into the skin of his wrist quite effortlessly, like gliding through water. Dark blood immediately poured from the wound.

 _Is it even blood_? Tom wondered idly, his thoughts seeming almost detached from the situation. _Maybe it’s the potion used in the Horcrux ritual_? _Or ink_.

He dragged the blade upwards towards the crook of his elbow. The pain made his hand slip so that the gash curved inwards instead of making a straight line. It was nothing to the pain of being made into a Horcrux, though, so he didn’t allow that slight inconvenience to stop him. Skin and muscle and sinew separated right down to the bone, and when he was finished making the cut he stabbed downwards into the bone itself once for good measure before calmly setting the dagger on the bedside table next to him.

It was difficult to see through all of the blood (or whatever it was), but he was pretty sure that all of the anatomy looked to be in its proper place. It was quite fascinating to see one’s own insides. He wondered why he’d never done it before.

Then before his very eyes the horrific gash began to heal. It didn’t close up or reknit itself or anything else to suggest that he was just a magically fast healer. Rather it just… melted away, as if it had never existed to begin with. He was left with an arm as pristine as ever, except that it was drenched in thick, dark blood. He extended and contracted his elbow experimentally, then twisted his forearm so that it was facing upwards then downwards.

There was no pain or any other sign that he had been injured.

Over the next half an hour or so he concocted increasingly painful and injurious experiments to perform on himself, from burning a hole in his own chest to removing one of his little toes from his body. No matter what he did, whether the Muggle way or by magic, he came away in the end without a scratch on him.

Tom had the urge to write all of this down, as he had always done with the results of his experiments or any other new knowledge he had gained. However, this particular field of knowledge was better left only in his own brain, and perhaps that of his other self. Even if he put the very best protections he knew how on his notes, then locked them in a safe box with another layer of the very best protections, then threw the whole thing into the middle of the Arctic Ocean, he still wouldn’t feel secure having such information about himself written down.

A knock came at the door. “My Lord?”

“Come,” Tom had replied before he’d really thought about it.

He realized his mistake as soon as Lucius froze in the doorway, wide eyes taking in his form. The man had called his name in shock and rushed across the room before Tom had time to reassure him.

“My Lord, what is this? What’s happened?”

Lucius had seized his blood-covered forearm and was holding it closer to his face to inspect it. No doubt he was looking for the injury that must be the source of the all the blood that was splattered across Tom’s body and his bedroom.

“Let go, Malfoy,” Tom ordered, although it came out much calmer than he was sure Lord Voldemort would have been under the same circumstances.

The man dropped Tom’s arm as if it had burned him.

“Forgive me, My Lord! I meant no disrespect! I was thinking only of your safety!”

“I know,” Tom replied in his eerily calm voice, “and that’s why I haven’t removed your hand from your body.”

The truth was that he relished the physical contact, and it was only the knowledge that Lord Voldemort would have never allowed his followers to touch him without permission that had kept him from allowing Malfoy to paw at him to his little blond heart’s content. It seemed that he was quite a bit more tactile—that he enjoyed human contact a lot more—now than before he’d gone into the diary, which was really no surprise, given the complete absence of physical sensation for the past fifty years. Perhaps if Lucius had shown any sexual interest in him…

But no, he hadn’t noticed any indication that the man would be a willing partner in that. Unfortunately.

He stepped around Malfoy, who leapt out of the way so quickly that he almost tripped backwards, and made his way to the bed, where he had dropped Potter’s wand sometime during his experiments. It was only a moment’s work to put his appearance to rights. He would leave the bedroom for the house-elves.

“Why are you here?” he asked the other wizard.

Lucius looked as if he desperately wanted to ask what Tom had been doing and whose blood was still all over the room, but instead he schooled his voice into an impressively level tone, given the circumstances, and explained, “I came to see if you would like breakfast, My Lord—you must be hungry!—and to tell you that I will be meeting with the Minister this morning to see about my position on the school board.”

Tom had no intention of eating breakfast. Sure he desperately missed food, and as early as twenty-four hours ago no one could have suggested to him that he should willingly give it up. However, he was determined now to see if he could go inhuman amounts of time without food or sleep.

“I’m not hungry. I expect you to return with information about Harry Potter.”

* * *

Lucius had been reinstated to the school board, just as his wife had predicted. They had all been amused by the article in the _Daily Prophet_ proclaiming him the victim of a scheming old man who had used his influence to get rid of his opposition and reclaim his position. The public perhaps would not have been so critical of Dumbledore regaining his position as headmaster if there hadn’t been three deaths and one injured Savior on his watch, all of which seemed to reinforce the idea that Malfoy had been right about Dumbledore’s inability to handle the situation.

As for the accusations that Lucius had threatened to curse the families of the other members of the board in order to get them to remove Dumbledore in the first place, they were considered nothing more than a baseless attempt by Dumbledore’s supporters to cover their own tracks and to continue defaming the man who had called for their idol’s removal.

It seemed that Tom’s victory that night in the Chamber had more far-reaching effects than even he could have imagined.

Still, the Ministry was reluctant to remove Dumbledore now that he was reinstated. Lucius had succeeded in having the rest of the supposedly dirty board removed and had installed some of Tom’s supporters in their places, but he couldn’t select _all_ of the new members. The other board members and Minister Fudge were convinced that it would be political suicide to remove Dumbledore at this juncture. Lucius’s hands were tied until Dumbledore screwed up again.

Most frustratingly, Lucius had been unable to dig up any useful information about Harry Potter or the Chamber incident. It wasn’t really his fault, as Dumbledore was keeping the boy strictly isolated in a private room at Saint Mungo’s and had insisted that they had to wait until he was released from the hospital to speak to him.

Still, Tom had been most displeased, and Lucius had been the most convenient target for his ire.

When Lucius strolled into the library a couple of weeks later, in mid-June, Tom’s hopes were renewed. He did not have the look about him of someone who knew that he was about to be held under the Cruciatus Curse. Tom hoped that meant he actually had something useful to say this time around.

“My Lord,” Lucius began, quickly bowing in Tom’s direction by why of greeting, “Potter has finally been released from Saint Mungo’s. Dumbledore tried to keep it quiet, and if not for Fudge’s interference I am sure that I would not have known about the interview until after the fact.” Here he allowed himself a brief chuckle. “The look on Dumbledore’s face when he saw me standing there will be etched into my mind forever.”

Tom perked up, sitting up straight in his seat and pushing away the heavy tome he’d previously been hunched over. He gestured for Malfoy to sit.

“And?”

Lucius gracefully lowered himself into a large wingback chair directly across from Tom’s.

“I was able to cast doubt on both his story and, I am happy to say, his mental faculties. I accused him and Dumbledore of having concocted the whole story about the Chamber of Secrets in order to cover up Dumbledore’s incompetence.”

The Malfoys had a large Pensieve, which was quickly sent for. Tom was momentarily uncomfortable at the thought of leaving himself exposed and vulnerable while he was inside the Pensieve, but then he remembered his own virtual invincibility and, with a cold laugh that seemed to unnerve Lucius, pressed his face into the swirling liquid.

He landed in the entrance hall at Hogwarts, right in front of the grand staircase. He was standing right next to Lucius, who was conversing quietly with two other men. At the sight of one of the men he experienced the same sense of surprise he’d felt when he’d first seen Abraxas looking so old. It had to be Richard Mulciber, only fifty years older.

The other man he recognized only because he had seen the man’s picture in the newspaper. Cornelius Fudge was standing directly on Lucius’s other side, wearing a pinstripe suit and holding a lime green bowler hat in one hand.

The group stood assembled when Dumbledore exited the Great Hall with Harry Potter a step behind him. The look on his face when he saw them was, as Lucius had said, quite priceless.

“Cornelius,” he said, not exactly politely, “I wasn’t aware that we would have an audience. Surely you understand that Harry isn’t strong enough for an interrogation?”

“An audience, Albus?” Lucius answered before the Minister could speak. “Surely you do not suggest that representatives from the Board of Governors do not have a right to be present for this inquiry?”

Mulciber spoke up in agreement. “Quite right, Mr. Chairman. The members of the school board think only of the safety of the students, and I’m sure that Minister Fudge would never suggest that he or any other Ministry official be allowed to questions a Hogwarts student without board oversight.”

Fudge looked rather more confused than not, but he nodded in agreement anyway. “Yes, yes, of course!”

Dumbledore could not but agree, although he did not look pleased. “Very well. I had planned to conduct this interview in my office.”

With that, he led the group through the castle and up the staircase behind the statute, where Harry immediately dropped into a maroon armchair. Indeed, the boy had looked to be swaying a bit on his feet, and Tom studied him with curiosity tinged with hate.

He wished that he weren’t inside a memory, so he could try the Killing Curse again. Next time he’d shove his wand right up Potter’s nose and cast it twice, just to make sure it took.

Potter had barely got settled into his chair before Fudge said, “Now then, Harry my boy, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

“It was Voldemort,” he stated immediately. Everyone in the room except Dumbledore reacted immediately. There were shouts and shivers all around, and Tom watched Lucius grip the handle of his cane so tight that his knuckles went white.

“Preposterous!” cried Fudge. “You-Know-Who has been dead for over ten years!”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes were grave. “As I have told you, Cornelius, he is not dead. He has merely been beaten back, not defeated, and it seems that now he has returned.”

Fudge spluttered in indignation.

Lucius sniffed in disdain and demanded, “You expect us to believe that You-Know-Who himself has been hiding out undetected in the school all year, petrifying students and cats?”

“No!” cried Harry. “It was Tom Riddle’s diary! He had—!”

Mulciber, although he was clearly startled at the mention of that name, had picked up on Lucius’s game by then. He cut off the Boy-Who-Lived with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “I thought you said it was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Now you say it was Tom Riddle!”

“You know as well as I do, Richard, that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort are one and the same.”

Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to bore into the man, and Tom assumed that it was only decades of experience under Lord Voldemort’s gaze that allowed him to hold firm under the scrutiny.

“I know no such thing!” he declared hotly. “You always hated Tom, and you’ve been accusing him of this since he discovered the culprit fifty years ago! You didn’t have any evidence then and you don’t now!”

Harry sat forward in his seat, as if he wanted to leap to his feet but hadn’t the strength to manage it. “We do have evidence! I saw him! He tried to kill me, and he did kill Ginny and Ron!”

There was a minor uproar, and in between the people trying to be heard over each other and Fudge’s exclamation of “Who is this Tom Riddle? Somebody tell me who this Riddle is!” Lucius cracked his cane loudly against the stone floor.

When he had everybody’s attention, he sneered at Potter and asked again, “And this Tom Riddle has been in the school all year?”

“It was his diary! He had possessed Ginny; she’d been writing to him all along!”

Tom saw Mulciber stiffen and knew that he had some idea now what had happened. It wasn’t exactly surprising, he supposed, given that he was one of Tom’s first followers and had undoubtedly been there to witness nearly everything.

“Preposterous!” Fudge repeated. “I’ve never heard of any diary do any such thing!”

Both Potter and Dumbledore opened their mouths to speak, but Lucius beat them to it. “Now, Minister, I’m sure that we can easily clear up this mystery. Just give us the diary, headmaster, and we can verify these claims for ourselves.”

Tom smirked at Malfoy’s cunning. He had known that there had to be a reason Voldemort had given the man his favor and trusted him with possession of a Horcrux.

Dumbledore frowned. “Unfortunately, we do not have the diary—”

“Because Riddle took it with him when he left!” cut in Potter.

Lucius looked for all the world as if he was terribly concerned and confused, although Tom knew that he had to be immensely enjoying himself. “I thought you said that Riddle possessed Miss Weasley through the diary? How is it that a diary could carry itself away?”

Harry looked enraged now, and his voice was anything but calm when he tried to explain. “He said that he had stolen her soul to escape from the diary, to make himself a body. That’s how she died.”

Mulciber was staring hard between Potter and Malfoy now, an expression of mingled shock and hope on his face. It seemed that Tom would have to solidify his plans for Voldemort’s followers sooner rather than later.

“I see,” said Lucius, although disbelief was evident in his tone. “Even if this is true, it does not explain what kind of monster perpetrated the attacks, or why neither Headmaster Dumbledore nor any of the professors were able to find and stop it. How did it come about that it was you, Mr. Potter, who finally faced this monster?”

The headmaster looked rather more guilty than embarrassed, in Tom’s opinion. He wondered how much Dumbledore had actually known, because he certainly didn’t believe for one second that, with fifty years to think about it, a man as smart as the headmaster hadn’t been able to figure out exactly what the monster was. And that would certainly explain why his bird had shown up at the opportune moment….

But why had he allowed things to continue, if he had known? Why had he allowed Potter to come to the Chamber?

Tom had lost the train of the conversation while lost in his own musings, but he was brought back to the present when Potter rose from his chair.

“I’m not making it up! I can prove it! I’ll show you the Chamber and you can see the basilisk’s corpse for yourself!”

Tom looked at Lucius, who seemed rather alarmed at the suggestion. He assumed that nothing bad had come of it, though, or else Malfoy wouldn’t have been quite so happy when he’d returned to the manor, so he followed along behind the group without any particular anxiety about the outcome of this little adventure.

When they reached the second floor bathroom, Potter strolled right up to the sink and said, “Open.”

Everyone watched in silence, but nothing happened.

“Open.” Potter tried again, but again nothing happened. He screwed his eyes shut. “Open!”

Fudge chortled. “I say, Harry, this has all been a fine joke, but—”

“No! I can do it!” Potter cried. “It’s just difficult to speak Parseltongue unless I’m actually talking to a snake!”

Mulciber huffed in exasperation. “Come now, I think we’ve heard enough! The story is nothing short of fantastical, and neither Mr. Potter nor the headmaster has been able to provide even a shred of evidence for any of it!”

“I am afraid that I have to agree,” said Lucius. “It seems that nobody here is interested in telling us the truth.”

Dumbledore stared at him seriously. “Now, Lucius, you know that’s not true.”

Potter, who had been looking at the group with disgust, finally exploded. “YOU KNOW THE TRUTH, MALFOY! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO GAVE RIDDLE’S DIARY TO GINNY!”

Lucius’s eyes glittered malevolently as he allowed his gaze to take the measure of the boy. Mulciber was looking between the two of them with the same expression as before.

“Mr. Potter!” exclaimed Fudge. “You cannot just go around making baseless, disrespectful accusations about upstanding members of society like Mr. Malfoy!”

“Now, now, Cornelius,” Lucius’s smooth voice broke in, though his icy gray eyes were still boring into Potter’s green, “I think that it’s quite clear Mr. Potter has been coached to say these things.”

Potter and Dumbledore both protested, but it was too late. Fudge had taken hold of the suggestion and clearly had every intention of running with it and never letting it go.

“Yes…” he mused. Tom could almost physically see the thoughts as they took form in his mind. “Yes, Lucius, Mr. Potter has clearly been dragged into this in an effort to protect Dumbledore….”

Potter spluttered in indignation, and Dumbledore began, “Now wait just a moment, Cornelius—” but the Minister would hear none of it. Lucius smiled victoriously in Potter’s direction as he turned to follow the Minister out of the bathroom.

Tom pulled out of the memory with a smirk on his face. Lucius was watching him with a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you pleased, My Lord?”

Tom acknowledged his pleasure with a nod, careful not to allow too much emotion to show in front of his follower. “There is no chance that they will use truth serum or perhaps a Pensieve to learn the truth?”

“No, My Lord. I suggested to Fudge that a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore, given the weeks he has had alone with Potter, could certainly have implanted false memories that would fool any measure we could come up with to test him.”

Although obviously Dumbledore had done no such thing, Tom knew that it was an entirely plausible excuse. He himself had done it before, when he had framed his uncle for the murder of his father and grandparents, and he’d only had a couple of hours and about a hundred years less experience than Dumbledore.

“Will Dumbledore be removed?”

The smile slid off of Malfoy’s face. “I’m afraid not, My Lord. Fudge is quite convinced, but this information is not public.”

 _And therefore it would be politically unpopular to remove him_ , Tom’s thoughts supplied the rest.

He sincerely hated Dumbledore, he really did. The man had always been a thorn in his side, and now after so long his influence and the cult of personality that had grown up around him were major hindrances.

“But My Lord, the good far outweighs the bad,” Lucius’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I’m sure that something will happen soon enough that will allow us to oust Dumbledore, and Fudge is convinced that Potter is either mentally incompetent or simply a tool for the headmaster.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, Malfoy, overall this is a victory. You have done well…. But leave me to my thoughts now; you have left me a lot to consider.”

* * *

 

A little more than a week later, on June 19th, Tom was reading quietly in the library. He had long since finished reading the most reliable history books at hand, and there wasn’t much else he could learn on that front unless he actually got a follower—or Lord Voldemort himself—to fill in the blanks. Now he was studying magical textbooks, refreshing his memory of things he had learned long ago but hadn’t had an opportunity to practice in five long decades.

Next he would move onto more advanced areas. He had a lot of catching up to do if he wanted even a small part of the knowledge he was sure his other self had gathered over forty years of travel and practice, before he’d been defeated.

He was enjoying a thoroughly depraved guide to Memory Charms when his solitude was interrupted. The Malfoys knew not to interrupt him in the library unless the need was dire or the information more interesting than whatever he might be reading, so he looked up expecting to receive important news from Abraxas or Lucius. Instead he watched a smallish, shockingly blond boy cross the room to one of the corner bookcases.

This must be Lucius’s son, Tom knew. In fact, he looked like a replica of Lucius done in miniature.

Draco carefully transferred several books from the bag he was carrying onto the shelf. Tom stayed silent and kept his seat as he watched these proceedings; the best time to observe a person, after all, was when he didn’t know you were watching him. Draco handled the books with love, placing them most carefully into place, and before he turned away from the shelf he ran his hand reverently over the volumes that had already been there.

Then he turned and caught sight of Tom, and he froze for a second before his expression morphed into a haughty mask.

“Who’re you?” he asked as he sauntered over to the group of chairs where Tom was sitting. “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy. Are you here with your father? Father told me he has an important guest, but of course all of the guests are important or they wouldn’t be allowed to stay here.”

Tom raised his eyebrows in amusement. “No, I’m not here with my father.”

Draco dropped himself into the chair across from his.

“Really? How old are you?”

“Sixty-six,” Tom answered honestly.

The youngest Malfoy glared at him in annoyance. “If you don’t want to answer, you just had to say so.”

There was a gasp, and they both turned to see Abraxas standing in the doorway watching them with wide eyes.

“Draco!” He rushed to where they were seated, his robes swishing around his legs when he came to a halt. He bowed low in Tom’s direction “My Lord, please forgive my grandson’s impertinence. He had no idea who you are; he had not been told yet of your return….”

There was complete silence for several heartbeats as they both looked at the older man, then Draco turned to stare at Tom with wide, frightened eyes. Tom could practically see the pulse point in his neck fluttering wildly. He seemed frozen in place until his grandfather’s hand on his shoulder propelled him forward. Then he fell to his knees in front of Tom’s chair.

“Please, My Lord, if I had known… I…”

He seemed to be at a loss for words.

Tom considered punishing him, or at least letting him sweat it out for a while longer. However, he wasn’t actually angry or insulted—after all, he really ought to get used to such reactions, given that he _did_ look like a sixteen year old and not at all like a Dark Lord. There would be plenty of opportunities to punish people for making that mistake in the future, he was sure, but he doubted anything good would come of torturing his hosts’ only child.

Still, there could be no harm in scaring him just _a_ _little_ ….

He reached out and allowed the long fingers of one hand to curl over Draco’s soft hair. The boy trembled under the touch, and his grandfather looked as if he wanted nothing more than to reach out and snatch the boy out of his master’s grasp. Of course he wouldn’t dare. Tom tilted Draco’s head back until he met the swimming gray eyes and allowed his hand to travel down until his fingers were half wrapped around Draco’s throat. He could feel the elevated pulse and the convulsive swallows, and he allowed a smile to play across his lips.

“Leave us, child,” Tom ordered as he let go and sank back into his chair. He was secretly amused at calling someone a child given his own appearance and the fact that he still felt sixteen rather than sixty-six, but he didn’t allow his amusement to show in his expression.

Draco stumbled to his feet and headed unsteadily for the door. He glanced back over his shoulder and, instead of looking at Abraxas as Tom would have expected, he looked right at Tom. As soon as their eyes met, Draco’s widened and he looked away, rushing the rest of the way out of the library.

Tom fought the urge to smile. He hadn’t been so amused in quite a long time.

He turned to his oldest follower, twirling Potter’s wand around his fingers. “Now, Abraxas, you and I need to have a little chat about this oversight.”


	4. Thin Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom feels the pressure of pretending to be Lord Voldemort, and someone disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up this pace as exam season looms, but I'm currently inspired.
> 
> There are various explanatory notes at the end.

"Show me your Mark."

Lucius startled, his blond head whipping up to catch sight of Tom standing in the doorway to his study.

"My Lord?" he asked, but he began rolling up his sleeve all the same.

Tom had been taking a risk; he'd really had no idea whether his other self had actually gone through with Marking his followers. It had just been the beginning of an idea before Tom had been put into the diary. If Lucius had ended up having no idea what he was talking about, he would have had to Obliviate him.

He might still have to Obliviate him, actually, if he became too suspicious.

"It occurs to me that I have not investigated the effects my resurrection has had on this," he said by way of explanation as he took Lucius's outstretched arm into his hands. The truth was that he needed to investigate the nature of the Mark in the first place so that he could use it. He had started planning how to bring some of his other followers back into the fold, but he could not do that until he understood how their Marks worked. If he could not even utilize the very brand he'd placed on them, it would be a dead giveaway that he wasn't really Lord Voldemort.

Lucius winced uncomfortably when Tom prodded at the brand with his finger. "It is still faded, My Lord. I had thought that it must be an effect of you having obtained a new body rather than the one that originally created the Mark."

"Hmm…" Tom mused, only half paying attention to what the other man was saying. "Yes, probably."

This wasn't the Mark he had envisioned for his followers. Then again, he had never planned for his group to be called the Death Eaters either. The skull and serpent was eminently suitable for a group called the Death Eaters, he had to admit, but he rather doubted that he would have branded the Knights of Walpurgis with any such thing.

He sighed. _I will have to find a way to examine Abraxas's Mark_.

Still, he had more information now than he had before: He knew without a doubt, after having examined it, that it was a variant on the Protean Charm. He had not worked out exactly how to modify the charm to suit his purposes before he'd been sent into the diary, but at least now he knew that his other self had kept that idea instead of finding something else entirely. It was a place to start.

There was a knock on the door then, and he dropped Lucius's arm to face that direction.

"Father?"

Lucius paused in rolling his sleeve back down, shooting a vaguely horrified glance between Tom and the heavy oak panels. "I can tell him to come back later, My Lord. No doubt he just wants to ask me for some toy or another."

Tom smiled coldly and pointedly took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs in front of Lucius's desk. "No, Lucius, invite him in. I need to speak with him."

There was no arguing with such an edict, but Tom knew that Lucius desperately wanted to disobey him. He had not made a move to harm a hair on the Draco's head in the days since their rather unorthodox introduction, but all three of the older Malfoys had been quite on edge, as if he might change his mind at any moment and strike the boy down where he stood. No doubt he hadn't put them at ease by torturing Abraxas and Lucius for failing to have informed Draco immediately of his identity. He had enjoyed Draco and been thoroughly amused by him, but he had just needed to _torture something_ and had found the boy's actions to be the perfect excuse to Cruciate his sires. He would have used any excuse at that point, and he didn't regret having done it.

Draco himself was still terrified to be around him, which was apparent from the way he trembled when he noticed Tom in his father's study. He bowed immediately, if stiffly, and murmured, "My Lord."

Lucius had come around his desk to stand protectively behind his son, for whatever good that would do, and seeing them together struck Tom anew with how close the resemblance was between them. When he had gone to kill his own father fifty years ago, it had been like looking through time at what he would look like in twenty or thirty years—well, more like in fifty or sixty years, given that wizards aged slower than Muggles. He had wondered then what it would have been like if the man had taken responsibility for him as he ought to have done, instead of abandoning his pregnant wife and unborn child.

The younger Malfoy always looked up at his father with undisguised love and a bit of worship shining in his eyes, and Lucius looked scarcely any more dignified when he looked down at his son.

Tom supposed that Draco Malfoy would never murder his own father.

Mentally shaking himself from those thoughts, Tom gestured towards the chair nearest his. "Come, Draco, sit by me."

Draco was obviously nervous at such a request, but to his credit he didn't look to his father for support before he did as he was told. Once he was settled, Tom offered him a kind look, one that appeared genuine.

"You are very important to my plans, Draco," he said softly, being as unintimidating as he could manage. "No one else has the information you do. I need you to tell me everything you know about Harry Potter."

"P—Potter?" Draco asked uncertainly. Then his eyes widened and he quickly added, "My Lord."

Tom honestly did not have much patience for this sort of thing. He had hated children even when he was a child himself, and that opinion had certainly not improved as he grew older. However, his observations over the past several days had shown him that, no matter what Draco's father thought, there was more of Narcissa than Lucius in the boy's personality, even if his appearance was every bit his father. Unlike Abraxas and Lucius, Draco was sensitive and appeared to have no taste for true violence. He would not respond well to being treated harshly, but Tom suspected that if he handled the boy with a soft hand then he would be able to coax just as much loyalty from him as from either of the older Malfoys. And soldiers were not the only followers Lord Voldemort would need.

So he leaned back casually in his chair and consciously softened the usually harsh lines of face. "Yes. I need to know his strengths and weaknesses: who his friends are, which subjects he does well in and which poorly, which professors are his favorite. That sort of thing."

Draco blinked up at him through long, pale lashes, seemingly still unsure about this turn of events. Tom supposed the boy might just think it was some sort of trap and that he was going to be Cruciated as soon as he said the wrong thing.

Then he released his lower lip from between his teeth and said, "He—he is treated favorably by the headmaster, My Lord, and by his head of house, Professor McGonagall. In first year he should have been expelled because he was caught on his broomstick after Madam Hooch had told us not to fly until she came back, but when McGonagall saw him she gave him a place on the Quidditch team—as a first year!—instead of expelling him or even taking points."

Tom raised his eyebrows. Potter must be extremely talented on a broom. "And Dumbledore?"

Here Draco scowled in clear irritation. "At the end of first year everybody knew that Potter and his friends had to have broken at least a hundred school rules, the rumors were so incredible—something about a Cerberus and the Sorcerer's Stone. But then, at the end of year feast after Slytherin had already won the House Cup and the whole Great Hall was decorated in our colors, Dumbledore awarded them all fifty points each and took them from dead last all the way to first! Right there in the middle of the feast, after we had won fair and square!"

He had never cared for such things himself, but Tom well understood the motivation that the little House Cup competition provided for most students. He had even played along and done more than his share of helping Slytherin win, although it had been done in service of his being recognized for his brilliance and talent and not actually as a quest to earn house points.

"Oh!" Draco exclaimed, the color in his cheeks rising even more. "Hagrid, the nasty half-breed groundskeeper, seems to have a soft spot for Potter. I know that Potter helped him hide a baby dragon last year, and _I_ got detention from McGonagall for reporting it!"

Tom actually laughed at that, just a single chuckle that escaped his mouth before he could check himself.

"A baby dragon? Well, I suppose I am not surprised that Hagrid still has a penchant for dangerous creatures that he has no business keeping as pets."

Draco and Lucius were both staring at him now, and he realized that he had been mistaken to say that aloud. He wondered if he would ever get used to putting his thoughts through the The Lord Voldemort They Know Would Never Say That filter he had been attempting to construct in his mind.

"The acromantula, My Lord?" Lucius asked finally.

Tom realized that of course it made perfect sense for Lucius to have already known, since he was the chairman of the school board during the most recent Chamber incident. Surely Hagrid would have been the first suspect, since he had been expelled as the culprit fifty years ago.

He ignored the question and turned back to Draco. "And his friends?"

"He's friendly enough with all of his housemates, but he's only close to Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, sir," he was quick to reply. "Did you kill the Weasel? Only I couldn't think how Potter could have gotten into the Chamber if he _wasn't_ the Heir of Slytherin, and he did speak Parseltongue. I thought—I mean, until I learned of your return, My Lord—I thought that maybe Potter really had run mad and done it all himself, and Dumbledore was just covering for him."

If he hadn't had so much practice controlling his reactions, Tom might have reared back in genuine surprise. There was so much information to shift through there, but he settled for asking, "Potter really could speak it then?"

"Oh, yes, My Lord. He spoke it right there in front of everybody when I was paired with him in Dueling Club."

Draco seemed like he would say more, no doubt to regale Tom with a heavily edited version of the duel that made him look the best, but Tom held up his hand to forestall it. He had a lot to think about— _Why had Potter lost the ability to speak it, or had he been telling the truth in the bathroom and merely had difficulty unless he had a real snake to talk to_?—but there were more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.

"Tell me about this Granger, then. A Mudblood?"

Lucius cleared his throat and Draco looked extremely uncomfortable.

"Yes, My Lord. She's very smart, though, at least with books. I'm sure she's the brains behind everything Potter's done; Potter and Weasley can't even manage to catch the Hogwarts Express on time."

He guessed from their reactions that this girl must be smart enough to have challenged Draco academically, which he knew Lucius would not be happy about.

"Potter is close to his friends?"

"Yes, My Lord. He's always with them. They do everything together, as far as I can tell, including whatever stunts Potter pulls. He wasn't himself at all when he came back from the hospital."

Well, at least there was some good news! The Malfoys had shrunk back from him as much as they could without moving, and Tom realized that he had started twirling Potter's wand between his fingers without thinking about it. He often did that when he was thinking of something particularly violent. Although in this case it wasn't aimed at the Malfoys, they obviously had no way of knowing that.

He smiled and kept twirling the wand, which did very little to alleviate his hosts' fears. "Tell me, Draco, do you think Potter would be just as affected by the loss of his Mudblood as he was by the loss of Weasley?"

Draco blinked at him several times in surprise. "I—I suppose so, My Lord. He spent every second with her after he came back to school."

Tom rose suddenly from his chair, causing Draco to scramble up after him to copy his father's bow. He reached out and ran the tips of his fingers along the boy's cheek as he passed by them on his way out the door, enjoying the shudder it drew. "You have done very well, Draco."

* * *

It turned out that it was a bit more difficult to track down a Mudblood than Tom had originally thought. Abraxas had been a bit surprised by his anger over the time it was taking him to complete the task.

"My Lord," he had placated, spreading his hands in front of himself to show his submission, "you know that these things take finesse to accomplish, and, as a result, a certain amount of time. It would be easier if we could use Lucius, but of course we can't blow his—"

Tom had snarled at him quite viciously, and he had abruptly stopped talking. Perhaps his other self had known that, but _he_ hadn't known any such thing. Every time he found something else he didn't know that he should have, he got more and more angry.

"I don't care whose arse you have to lick, Malfoy! I want the information by the end of the week!"

Whether Malfoy really had put himself out to get the information sooner or whether he would have had the information by the end of the week anyway, Tom had no idea. But he had the information in hand that Friday afternoon, so he was quite content either way.

The next obstacle had come when Lucius had become quite horrified at Tom's plan to carry out the kidnapping himself.

"But, My Lord, surely you should not lower yourself to this!"

Tom might have been amused by this earlier, but by that point he had been quite annoyed with the whole exercise. "Who will do it in my place, Malfoy? _You_? You would stand out in a Muggle neighborhood as much as a troll would, even if you changed your appearance."

And really, the icing on the cake had been that clearly Lucius had wanted to ask quite a lot of questions about why Tom himself would have more success blending into a Muggle neighborhood.

"Tell me, Malfoy," Tom had said by way of diversion, "have you any idea how to mask your magic so that the Ministry does not immediately know that magic has been performed in the vicinity of the Mudblood?"

"I—No, My Lord."

Tom let his wand out to twirl around his fingers. "And are you confident in your ability to either escape or, upon capture, talk your way out of it if Dumbledore or the Ministry is having the house watched as a precaution?"

"No, My Lord." Lucius had looked quite put out to have to admit that.

Tom had held him under the Cruciatus Curse for longer than was strictly necessary for the offense of questioning his lord's plans.

And so on Saturday nearly two weeks after he had learned of the girl from Draco, Tom found himself standing on her street. It was in an affluent London suburb, the kind of place where Tom had always imagined that he would someday live, before he'd discovered that he was a wizard. A church dominated the center of the neighborhood, and four streets spread out around it like a cross. He selected the street directly in front of the church door and set off down it at a casual pace, smiling and nodding to the residents who took note of him. He looked like he belonged there, he knew, and aside from the neighbors not recognizing him as a resident he should have no trouble. He would probably be thought of as the school friend of one of the neighborhood kids.

The Grangers had their name on their mailbox, so Tom had no trouble at all finding the house. It was a typical middle-class home, two stories and an attic made of brown brick with large white windows. The front garden was planted heavily with trees and shrubs of all sorts so that only the narrow stone walkway up to the door was clear. Tom kept up his leisurely pace as he made his way up the walk and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a rather tall woman with dark hair pulled back into a loose bun. She seemed quite bemused by the strange boy standing on her stoop clutching a book to his front with anxious fingers. "Can I help you, dear?"

"Mrs. Granger?" asked Tom in a soft, nervous voice. At her affirmation, he went on, "I'm Dean; I go to Hog—erm, to school with Hermione. I was hoping to visit her, you see. But only if she isn't busy—and also you aren't busy, I mean! I wouldn't want to—to intrude."

The woman looked as if she had to resist the urge to coo at him and pat his cheek, which was just what Tom had hoped. "Is Hermione expecting you, dear?"

"No. I rather wanted it to be a surprise to cheer her up. She had such a hard year last year, and I know that she was so—so _upset_ by what happened to—well, you know…." He trailed off uncomfortably, and Mrs. Granger's eyes darkened and crinkled in understanding. "Only I know—that is, I've noticed—that she loves to read, and I thought that she might enjoy this book"—here he indicated the book that he had deliberately been keeping in a white-knuckled grip—"and that maybe she wouldn't mind if I visited her instead of just owling it."

"Oh, of course. That's so thoughtful!" Mrs. Granger moved aside to allow Tom into the house. "Where are you from, dear? Do your parents expect you home for dinner?"

Tom crossed the threshold triumphantly, but he maintained his pathetically nervous façade. "I haven't any parents; I live in an orphanage in Lambeth."

She looked at once pitying and uncomfortable, as Tom had known she would. All adults reacted the exact same way to hearing of his childhood circumstances. On the other hand, in his experience all children reacted with either curiosity or ridicule, but never kindness.

"Oh dear! Well, you shall certainly have to stay for dinner, if you've come all this way. Here, you go wait in the sitting room and I'll call Hermione downstairs."

Tom found himself deposited into a room where another man was already occupying the only sofa. He was watching the television, and Tom had never seen one as large or colorful as that. In fact, he had only ever seen the large boxes with small, black-and-white screens that were displayed in some of the most expensive Muggle stores in London during his childhood. It was really fascinating that the technology had come so far, and he wondered what else was different about the Muggle world so many years later…. But he had work to do, so he shoved the thought aside for later consideration.

Mr. Granger didn't seem particularly pleased that a young man had come to his house looking for his daughter. They exchanged only the most cursory of greetings under Mrs. Granger's watchful eye, but then they sat in silence when she left to call up the stairs for Hermione. It was only after the girl could be heard coming down the stairs that the man ventured to speak.

"So, do you have an, erm… _interest_ in our Hermione?"

Tom looked away from the television to meet the man's gaze and allowed a cold, high laugh. "An interest? You could say that."

Mr. Granger's face had colored and he looked as if he was about to speak when his daughter stepped through the door and gasped loud enough to draw everyone's attention. She staggered backwards right into her mother, who was a couple of steps behind her.

"Hermione, dear, whatever is the matter?"

But Hermione paid her mother no mind. She was staring wide-eyed at their guest and had begun frantically patting at her pockets. "You!"

"Yes, me," Tom agreed, rising from his armchair with a grace that belied the nervous suitor act he'd been performing before. "I should have known that you would have managed to find a picture of me somewhere in the Hogwarts library."

"Hermione…?" her mother tried again, even as her father exclaimed, "What is going on here?"

She put her arms out and tried to herd her mother backwards out of the room. "It's him! Voldemort—the man who killed Ron and Ginny!"

There was a general explosion of chaos at that point, with Mrs. Granger screaming and trying to switch positions with her daughter, who was having none of it, and Mr. Granger rising from the couch with a great shout to rush towards Tom. The man was soon face-first on the floor, and Tom trained his wand steadily at the women.

"Tsk, tsk, little Mudblood. No wand? A true witch would never be caught without it."

Hermione stood defiant next to her mother, who had frozen and was staring unblinking at her husband's unmoving form. "I wouldn't have been able to fight _you_ even if I'd had my wand."

Tom laughed again, the sound causing Mrs. Granger to flinch. "True enough, but it's the principle of the thing, you understand…. Now, you can come quietly or not."

With a great flurry of movement, Hermione shoved her mother towards the door once more, but the cry for the woman to run had hardly left her mouth before her mother had dropped to the floor, screaming in agony.

"That will be 'not,' then? I admit that I had hoped you would say that; it's much more fun this way."

Hermione had knelt down next to her mother, but there was of course nothing she could do to help the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. She only received a hard knock across the face from one of the woman's flailing arms, which knocked her backwards onto her ass. She glared up at Tom through a mass of wild curls, sprawled out on the floor in front of him like an offering.

"What do you want?"

He smirked. "You. Did I not make that clear?"

Mrs. Granger continued to scream and thrash.

"I'll go!" Hermione cried. She was watching her mother with wide, teary eyes. She had snot trailing down her face from her crying, and blood from where her mother's arm had split her lip. "I'll go! Please, take it off!"

Tom was a bit disappointed that she had capitulated so quickly, and he held the curse for a few seconds longer just because he was enjoying himself. But he lifted it eventually. Mrs. Granger continued to lie on the floor sobbing, of course, and not moving, but the screams stopped. He levitated the woman next to her husband and conjured a magical chain that he quickly set about manacling around their ankles.

"You—you're bringing them with us?" the girl asked weakly.

Tom dragged her up by the hair and shoved her in the direction of her parents. She stumbled and landed in a heap across their prone forms.

"Of course I'm bringing them, you stupid Mudblood. I can't believe I've been told that you are sensible."

He had no desire to explain it to her further if she couldn't figure it out for herself, but it was quite obvious to him. First, even the Ministry was not so incompetent that they would fail to notice a Hogwarts student and friend of Harry Potter being kidnapped when her parents were left behind. Either her parents would raise the alarm or, if they were Obliviated or given false memories, their memory lapses would be a sure sign that there was magical foul play involved. If they all came with him, he was counting on the Ministry's denial of his existence to lead them to believe that the Grangers had all disappeared in some sort of Muggle incident. After all, there would be absolutely no sign that anything magical had occurred, as he had been very careful to only use magic on the Grangers themselves and not on any doors or other objects that would leave behind a magical signature, and the lack of a Dark Mark or any other signature would have them refusing to attach the name Lord Voldemort to the disappearances. Surely the Dark Lord would sign his work if he was behind the disappearance of the best friend of the Boy Who Lived?

Honestly, why else had she thought that Lord Voldemort had used subterfuge to gain access to her home instead of blasting his way inside?

Second, Hermione had proven much easier to control if he had her parents under his power. He wouldn't mind torturing information out of her or forcing truth serum down her throat, but with a prisoner as important as this he preferred not to burn his bridges that way unless absolutely necessary.

With another roll of his eyes to signify his disgust at her idiocy, he tapped the chain he had conjured to turn it into a Portkey, and the Grangers spun away in a swirl of magic.

After a sweep through the house to make sure there was nothing out of place that would immediately indicate that something strange had happened—no television left on, no kettle still on the burner—he Apparated into the front drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was waiting for him, but Abraxas and Lucius had gone about their days as usual (Abraxas attending a schmoozing business lunch and Lucius a Quidditch match of the professional team he owned) in order to stave off any suspicions that might happen to arise from the Grangers' disappearance.

"My Lord," she greeted him coolly, "our… _guests_ have arrived safely in the cellar."

Tom smirked, half in amusement at her attitude and half in pleasure for a mission well done. "Excellent. I imagine that you'll sort out the details of their stay."

She did not look pleased, but nonetheless she agreed and bowed as he strolled out of the room.

He would have to deal with her later.

Tom intended to leave the Granger girl to stew for a while before he interrogated her, so he made his way to the library to continue his research. He had made some headway on the Marks, but he still did not feel confident enough to use them without giving away his ignorance. There was also the matter of what to do about his other self. He had determined by this point that he needed to bring him back. Tom was already running out of time before everybody learned what he really was, and he simply did not have time to gain decades of knowledge and experience before he was found out. If he wanted to take over and change things, as he had always planned, then he needed his other self.

Exactly how to go about bringing him back was an entirely different matter, and one that Tom had no clear answer for. Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I base my assertion that wizards age slower than Muggles on the fact that Dumbledore in his seventies or so (in the flashbacks during CoS) still has auburn hair, and McGonagall in her sixties or seventies still has black hair. And they were all quite spry and didn't seem to be at all affected by age when dueling, including Voldemort, who was seventy-one when he died. I assume they don't dye their hair or have hip replacements, but rather wizards just age slower than Muggles.
> 
>  
> 
> The Grangers' home and streetin DH Part 1 is in Hampstead Gardens; for my own convenience I've envisioned that street and house in this story. As for Tom's orphanage, we don't really know where it is, but in CS the back of the diary has a stamp from a bookshop on Vauxhall Road. That isn't a real road in London, but Vauxhall is a real enough place; I have decided that Tom would probably have been from Lambeth, which is a community in the same borough as Vauxhall, because during the 1920s (and beyond) it would have been a poorer area than Vauxhall. There was even a workhouse there in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
> 
> Their neighborhoods are about eight miles apart, which even today would be about an hour trip using public transportation. So if Tom's story had been true, he really would have had to have quite the crush on Hermione.


	5. Secrets and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some secrets and lies are revealed, and more are created.

It seemed that the library was also Draco's usual refuge. Since he had been home he had disturbed Tom more than once at odd hours, opening the library door just a crack and then squeaking out a terrified "Forgive me, My Lord!" before closing it again and scurrying off. Tom hadn't had an opportunity to question the boy about it since he only ever saw him in the company of the adults. They had only just started to relax, as if they had finally accepted that Tom wasn't going to kill the child at any moment, and he had no desire to put them back on edge by questioning him in front of them.

Their fear had been fun while it lasted, but fear was only a useful thing when it served a specific purpose. In this case it was quite counterproductive.

He was waiting for Draco the next time he cracked open the library door in the wee hours of the morning.

"Come in, Draco."

The boy paused, and Tom felt as if he could almost hear the hammering heartbeat from all the way across the cavernous room. Then he pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered warily, presenting Tom with a face that was desperately trying to appear confident and wide eyes that gave away his fears.

Draco came to kneel in front of him without having to be told to do so. He lowered his head so that Tom was presented with a view of his blond hair and the back of his neck. "Forgive me, My Lord."

"Why should I forgive you?"

"Please, I—I didn't mean to disturb you, My Lord," replied Draco, his cultured voice wavering.

Tom reached out to run his hand along the rumpled platinum locks as if he were petting a dog. He so enjoyed any human touch at all, these days. "Then why do you keep doing it?"

He could feel that Draco's body was as tense as a bowstring now, but to his credit he didn't stammer when he explained, "I had hoped that you had already retired, My Lord. I had finished with my books and wanted to select others, and I tried to wait until I wouldn't be intruding."

But Tom, who had no need to sleep, had taken to staying in the library all through the night when there was no chance of being disturbed by either of the elder Malfoys. The boy's behavior made much more sense to him now.

"Ah, Draco," he said softly, absentmindedly using his long fingers to straighten the tangles in the child's hair, "you need only have asked. Did you think that I would deny you the chance to learn?"

Draco trembled under the attention, but he replied, "I didn't think you would want to be bothered, My Lord."

"You are not as bold as your father. He would have already asked and been granted his request."

The littlest Malfoy audibly sucked in a breath. "I don't—I'm not… My father is your trusted servant, My Lord, and I'm… well—"

"A child?" filled in Tom. Swirling thoughts had begun to form something solid in his mind. "Yes, you are at that. But you want to be like your father; you are disappointed that I said you are not like him."

It hadn't been a question, but Draco answered anyway. "Yes. He has earned his place, and I want that."

Tom smiled and pulled his hand away from Draco's head. The boy was only telling half of the truth, he knew, and had chosen the most flattering part to tell. Tom had no doubt that Draco expected that earning his place was a foregone conclusion and would require little more than his last name and the strength of his father and grandfather behind him.

The real truth, that which Tom knew even Draco himself did not yet know, was that he would never be like his father. There was too much of his mother in him, and even from their brief acquaintance Tom already sincerely doubted that he would ever be able to torture or kill with impunity, for no reason and with no regrets, like his father and grandfather. The child was lucky that it was Tom he needed to follow now and not Tom's other self, because he had gathered that Lord Voldemort had little mercy and no need for followers who had consciences.

Draco Malfoy would either prove himself worthy of being one of Tom's, or he would most likely be killed trying to prove himself as one of Lord Voldemort's.

"You may use the library, Draco," Tom informed him. "You may even sit in here with me, if you are able to remain quiet and stay out of the way."

The blond head came up to reveal eyes wide now with awe instead of terror. "Oh, yes, My Lord! I swear I can! I'm one of Madam Pince's favorite students, you know."

Tom laughed, his normal laugh as opposed to the high, piercing noise he made to unnerve others. "Is that old bat still at Hogwarts? Just you keep in mind, Draco, that my punishments are far worse than a bit of shrieking and a detention."

Draco nodded. "I promise, My Lord!"

"Go to bed now," ordered Tom. "You're no use to anyone at this time of night, least of all to yourself. You may come back tomorrow…. Oh, and Draco, wizards do not swear unless they are willing to be bound by the most unyielding of magics. I ought not to have to remind you of this."

Draco did come back the next day, and the day after that. He remained quiet and unobtrusive unless Tom directly addressed him, which he did with increasing regularity as the days passed. He was pleased to discover that the boy had a keen mind and impressive magical acumen. He was not exceptional—really, who was exceptional compared to Tom?—but he was talented. And he was growing increasingly comfortable in Tom's presence; he was even occasionally willing to ask Tom to explain things from his readings, if Tom had indicated that he was allowed to speak.

He was sitting in his customary chair in the far corner of the library when his sires burst through the library doors a couple of weeks after Tom had kidnapped the Grangers. Lucius rushed to speak before Tom could even begin to express his anger at such an intrusion.

"My Lord, I have received information that the Ministry knows about the Muggles!"

Tom was immediately on his feet, the ancient, priceless tome he'd been holding in his lap falling to the floor in a heap. " _What_?"

Lucius spoke so quickly that Tom could barely make out his meaning. "My contact in the DMLE warned me that Dumbledore has contacted the Aurors claiming that the Muggles have been abducted and are being held in our cellars."

Where Lucius looked furious, Abraxas appeared merely put out by the inconvenience. He reached out and placed a hand on his son's shoulder to forestall the tirade.

"There is apparently a disagreement in the upper ranks of the Department, My Lord," explained Abraxas more calmly than Lucius could have. "Scrimgeour and many of his Aurors want to conduct an immediate raid on the manor, but Bones has put her foot down pending a hearing to review the evidence."

"Bones's unfailing sense of fairness is quite annoying at times," said Lucius, "but it is undeniably useful in this sort of situation. After all of their attempts last year failed to turn up any evidence of our dealing in the Dark Arts, she became quite strict about the Aurors being able to justify such raids before they are carried out."

Tom paced back and forth between the Malfoys and the cluster of chairs where he'd been sitting. "How much time do we have?"

"The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning, My Lord," Lucius informed him, adding a little sniff of disgust to the end.

Tom immediately felt a good measure of the tension leave his body. If there was no threat of Aurors knocking down the doors at any moment, then they had plenty of time to handle the problem. If they hadn't obviously had more pressing matters to deal with, he would have punished Lucius for his alarmist attitude. He made sure to keep his wand firmly up his sleeve lest he give into the temptation anyway.

"How could Dumbledore have gotten his information?"

Both Malfoys shared a glance, and it was Abraxas who spoke. "Should we not first devise a plan to allay suspicions, My Lord, and, perhaps, to get the Grangers out of the manor?"

"No, you fool." It had been a solid bit of foresight to keep his wand up his sleeve. "Dumbledore's information is too specific, too accurate, to be mere guesswork. If someone here has shared what they know, then they must be dealt with before we decide our next steps. It would do no good to plan evasive maneuvers if Dumbledore, and through him the Aurors, are just going to be informed about them."

Abraxas's spine stiffened. "No one here would have shared anything with Dumbledore, My Lord."

"I would be more inclined to believe you if the Aurors weren't on the verge of finding my prisoners."

Tom turned a steely glare on them so intimidating that they both fell to their knees with no further prompting.

"Look at me," he demanded, to which they both immediately complied. He locked eyes with Abraxas first. "Do you have any idea how this betrayal happened?"

The older man's thoughts were racing so quickly that Tom could not catch the details of all of them. However, two thoughts stood out above the rest: a desperate denial of any knowledge and an utter terror that his son would be found guilty. Tom released him with a sneer and turned to Lucius, who, his thoughts revealed, had no knowledge of the betrayal but was terrified that his wife had committed the deed.

Tom was not sure if these suspicious thoughts were the result of sheer love and fear of loss, or if they portended a more serious problem he needed to deal with.

His sneer deepened. "Well, it's clear that it was neither of you."

"Please, My Lord, none of us would have—all of us here are loyal to—" began Lucius, but Tom cut him off with a vicious hand tangling through his smooth blond locks.

"Silence, you fool. Do you forget that I can read your wife's thoughts as clearly as your own?" Tom used Lucius's long hair to pull his head back even further. "Your wife is not loyal to me. She is loyal to your son first and foremost, and I daresay she would leap in front of a Killing Curse out of love for you"—he spat the word _love_ as if he were speaking of the vilest thing imaginable—"not that you would deserve it. But she despises me."

Abraxas prostrated himself even further at Tom's feet. "My Lord, all of the communications in and out of the manor are monitored."

He undoubtedly had more to say, but he did not get the chance before his muscles contracted all at once and sent him flat to the floor with a keening moan. It was not the Cruciatus Curse but one that Tom had invented and perfected long before he'd known that what he was doing was magic, back when he had been dealing with cruel children at the orphanage. As it turned out, keeping his wand put away was no guarantee that he would keep his magic to himself.

Tom did not seriously think that Narcissa Malfoy had betrayed him, if only because she would have rather died herself than to put her son's or husband's lives in danger by angering the Dark Lord. No, his anger was because if she hadn't done it, then he didn't know who could have.

He knew that neither of the Malfoys were stupid enough to try to speak to him again when he was like this, no matter how much they might want to. Therefore he was shocked enough at the small voice that he reflexively tugged even harder on Lucius's hair.

"My Lord… Please, My Lord, the house-elves…"

Even through his whimper of pain, Lucius breathed out, " _Draco_ …"

Tom pried his fingers out of the long blond hair and released Abraxas from the spell so that he could turn his full attention to the littlest Malfoy. Draco was standing beside the chair that Tom had abandoned, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Tom tilted his head to consider him. "What was that?"

"You—you have to find someone who could have known everything and left the manor without anyone knowing." He visibly swallowed and tried to keep his gaze from straying to his suffering father and grandfather. "Mother couldn't have left or sent any messages without Grandfather knowing, but the house-elves could have."

The rest of them could only stare at Draco in various degrees of shock.

Tom's mind raced with everything he knew about house-elves, which he had to admit was not a whole hell of a lot. He had known that they were responsible for the cooking and cleaning at Hogwarts, but after a cursory bit of research he had dismissed them as otherwise useless creatures and thought no more about it.

Lucius staggered to his feet and began making his way to his son, as if his mere presence might have an impact on whatever Tom decided to do to the boy.

"Draco, cease this at once!" he ordered, his voice tense with terror. "You know that the house-elves cannot leave this manor or give away information without permission."

His son looked defiant and opened his mouth to speak, but Tom broke in with, "Have you given them all direct orders to that effect?"

Lucius looked at once confused and stymied, and he turned to his father.

Abraxas, who had only just managed to pick himself up off the floor and back onto his knees, shook his head in denial. "There is no need; it is in the nature of house-elves to be bound in loyalty to their masters. None of them could have left the grounds without direct permission."

"That's not true!" began his grandson, but Lucius clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"DRACO!"

Tom held up his hand for silence, and all of them immediately stilled. He held out his hand towards the youngest of them. "Come here, child."

The elder Malfoys both looked stricken at the command, but Draco walked over with a wary confidence born of his time spent alone with the Dark Lord. He knelt in front of Tom and looked up to shyly meet his eyes instead of bowing his head.

"Tell me," Tom commanded calmly.

"My personal elf, Knobby, visits me at Hogwarts sometimes," explained Draco, keeping his eyes on Tom's instead of looking at his father or grandfather when they both made noises of surprise. "I never asked him to the first time, and I don't think anyone else told him he was allowed. He just did it, because he missed me."

Tom saw in Draco's thoughts that this house-elf had been his constant companion as a young child, as it had been tasked with minding him as a nanny of sorts. It was probably not uncommon, Tom supposed, for families with such means to assign a house-elf to see to feeding and cleaning a young child instead of the parents. He lifted his eyes to look at Lucius, who looked as if he wanted to allow his jaw to drop in surprise and was only resisting due to years of training.

"I… No, I never gave it permission," he croaked.

From behind himself, Tom could hear Abraxas say, "Neither did I."

"Call them all here," was the immediate command. Then Tom turned his attention back to Draco. "You have done very well. Take your book and go for now."

By the time Draco had gathered his things and left the library, Lucius had helped his father to his feet and they had assembled a small army of rag-covered house-elves in a haphazard line in front of their master. Tom had no desire to speak to the little beasts himself, so he turned and gave his directive to Abraxas, who still looked a bit green around the edges from his ordeal.

"All of you," he addressed the ragtag group with a strong voice that belied his appearance, "are ordered to follow this man's orders as if he were one of your masters." Then he turned to receive Tom's next instruction before turning back to his house-elves. "I order whichever of you has given any information you have learned in this house to any other person who does not live in this house to step forward immediately."

All of the house-elves looked absolutely horrified, including the bat-like one who stepped forward, his enormous green eyes shimmering with fear and tears. Tom supposed that this one was horrified for an entirely different reason than all the rest of them. He recognized it at Lucius's personal house-elf.

"DOBBY!" roared Lucius, and he raised his heavy walking stick to deliver what would surely be a death blow if he put any measure of magic at all behind it.

Tom stilled his follower's hand with an almost bored tone. "Don't be stupid, Lucius. The little wretch is of far more use to us alive."

* * *

That Friday night, Malfoy Manor was to fill up with Ministry officials from every conceivable department, although they had obviously been a bit heavy handed with invitations to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Neither Abraxas nor Lucius had been able to get any definitive information about the evidentiary hearing before Madam Bones, but as Aurors had yet to descend on the manor, it was safe to assume that she had not been impressed with the information Dumbledore had been able to give the Aurors.

It was no surprise, really, given that all of the headmaster's information had come secondhand from Harry Potter by way of a traitorous house-elf who had only been able to offer him veiled hints and warnings.

Still, they had considered it far too risky to keep the prisoners at Malfoy Manor. Just as it was far too risky for Tom Riddle to stay in the house when it was to be full of Aurors who had been invited to a dinner party thrown for the sole purpose of making it seem like the Malfoys had nothing to hide and, in fact, had no idea that they had been under suspicion at all.

Tom Apparated out of the manor just as the magical carriages began carrying the first guests from the gates to the front door. He landed with barely a sound on the soft, long grass in front of a small, single-story cottage that had been left to Draco by his paternal great-grandmother.

"She always hated me and my son after me," Abraxas had explained, while Lucius had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an insult under his breath, "but for some reason she grew attached to Draco and left all of her possessions and fortune directly to him, even though he was barely three when she died. I doubt that the Ministry knows anything about it, since _my_ great-grandfather built it and warded it himself for his wife's pleasure, and it has never been connected to the Floo Network."

He had only been inspired enough to come up with such a solution after Tom had held him under the Cruciatus Curse for a solid five minutes for daring to suggest that Tom might consider his filthy Muggle father's house in Little Hangleton.

When Tom opened the door to the small, windowless walk-in closet that had been converted to hold the prisoners, the smell of human waste and unwashed flesh assaulted his sensitive nose. He fought valiantly to control his natural reaction and succeeded in merely sneering in distaste instead of recoiling. Three pairs of eyes glared out at him from the darkness, and he reached out with his magic to forcibly haul the Mudblood to her feet.

"Come, Granger. It's time to see what you can offer me."

It was the work of a moment to secure her in one of the kitchen chairs. She squeezed her eyes shut at the magical candlelight that illuminated the cottage and bent her head forward so that her mass of hair shielded her face. Tom thought that her hair was so matted that it was probably beyond repair and would need to be shaved off and started anew (not that he was planning on giving her the opportunity to do so).

He flicked his wrist and, with a cry of surprise and pain from his prisoner, her head flew back to expose her face to him.

"You have two choices, Mudblood: You can tell me what I want to know and earn yourself and your filthy parents some better living conditions, or you can deny me and I can make your lives now look like heaven in comparison to what I will do to you."

Even through her filth and her pain, her brown eyes glared at him defiantly. "If you wanted me to cooperate, maybe you should have started out treating us a bit more humanely."

Tom had read about such bravery in many of the Muggle stories he had consumed as a child, and he had heard that such valor earned the respect of many. Personally, he could only feel revulsion at such utter stupidity.

He allowed his childhood torture spell to wrack her weakened body until tears and snot cleared trails down her dirty face.

"Next time it will be the Cruciatus Curse. Oh, yes," he added at her surprised look, "what you just experienced was not the Unforgivable. That was a little thing I invented years before I got my Hogwarts letter or my wand. And, of course, if you find the Cruciatus Curse to be insufficient motivation, I will have to use your filthy mother to demonstrate the effects of prolonged exposure—it's anatomically impossible to make one's brain actually fall out the ears, you know, but I can turn it to mush quite easily."

He knew he had defeated her when her lower lip began to tremble, and he congratulated himself on having the foresight to bring her parents along. He was certain that she would have rather been tortured than betray her friend, but she could not willingly sentence her parents to such a fate.

"Okay," she whimpered. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know, if I can."

Tom rewarded her with a cold smile that he knew perverted his exceedingly handsome features and made him look quite demented. "I knew you are a smart girl, Granger. I want to know how Harry Potter survived in the Chamber of Secrets."

Her eyes went wide. "I—I don't know that. No one does!"

"No one?" he asked. "Not even Dumbledore?"

She shook her head quite vehemently. "If Dumbledore knows then he didn't tell Harry. He told Harry that it had something to do with his mother, that she had left behind her protection on the night you tried to k—kill him. It's the s—same thing he said after you attacked Harry before."

Tom had always been something of a natural Legilimens. He had always been able to get a general impression of someone's state of mind, to tell what their main emotion was at a given moment or, more importantly, to tell if they were lying. He had learned more during his time at Hogwarts, and he could have invaded Granger's mind for more information. However, he could tell that she was not lying, and he was not yet so skilled in the art that he would leave her mind completely intact should she try to resist him. He decided that this early in their acquaintance any additional details he might have been able to pick up through invasive Legilimency were not worth the risk of ruining her.

Instead, he tried a different approach. "Tell me how Potter was affected by our little adventure."

* * *

Hours later, he was no closer to answers than he had been before he'd interrogated the filthy little Mudblood. She had only been able to tell him things that he had either already known, such as that Potter had lost his ability to speak Parseltongue, or could have guessed for himself, such as that Potter was emotionally traumatized by the loss of the two Weasley brats.

He had half a mind to refuse to improve their living conditions as he had said he would, since she hadn't told him anything remotely useful, but in the end he decided that she needed to be able to trust his word. And, in any case, if he told the house-elves to clean the closet at least once every few days, then _he_ wouldn't have to experience such a horrible odor the next time he saw her.

Abraxas found him brooding in the library surrounded by stacks of mostly illegal books. He gingerly took the seat across from him without waiting to be invited.

"Tom…"

Tom had already raised his head to acknowledge the address before it occurred to him that he really ought to have cursed the man to the deepest level of Tartarus and back for using that name.

"I know," said Abraxas before Tom could react. "I know that you aren't really—that you're _you_ and not _him_."

He might have to either Obliviate or outright kill the man for that, but Tom figured that he owed him at least the courtesy of being able to say what he had come to say. His tone was wry when he said, "You took a risk calling me that."

Abraxas's face was serious, and when he nodded the dim lamplight played across his dark eyes and pale hair in a way that made him look quite ghoulish. "I know. It was a calculated risk, just like mentioning your fa—well, you know which place—was a calculated risk."

"If I had been him I would have killed you on the spot for either offense," guessed Tom.

"You would have killed me on the spot for calling you 'Tom,'" agreed Malfoy. "But he has lost so much of his humanity that I am not sure he still feels enough to have wanted to kill me for mentioning that place. I wanted to see how much you feel."

Tom leaned back in his seat and folded his long fingers in his lap. "I hope the results were worth the punishment you received for mentioning that place to me." Abraxas was still moving as if he were twice his actual age due to the effects of the prolonged torture, and Tom smirked when he winced at the reminder. "What convinced you so thoroughly that you were willing to risk yourself to confirm the truth?"

"Many things, Tom. I admit that I was never entirely at ease with your physical appearance or the circumstances surrounding the diary, but _that_ ," he emphasized with a little flourish of his hand, "would have been nothing if not for your reactions that backed up my suspicions. _He_ would have likely killed Draco on the spot for speaking to him the way my grandson did to you, and he certainly would not have allowed the boy to share the library with him afterwards. He would have been able to read every thought in my mind from all the way across the room without eye contact, but you had me stare into your eyes. But I knew for certain after you used that torture spell on me; he had stopped using it entirely by the time he had left Hogwarts."

Tom smiled ruefully at his oldest follower. He might have been able to pull it off for longer with nearly anyone else, but it seemed that Abraxas was far too familiar with the differences between him and his other self.

"You must have some plan for this information, Malfoy. You would have kept silent otherwise."

Abraxas leaned forward, although the movement caused him to let out a little breath full of discomfort. "No, I don't have a plan. But you do, and I can help you. I can fill in all of the information you lack, and with my help you can move forward. You _are_ going to bring him back, are you not?"

 _Ah, so that's it_ , thought Tom. _Malfoy wants to be able to tell Lord Voldemort that he had a hand in his return, no doubt to make up for these ten years of doing nothing_.

He allowed a full smile to grace his face. "I am."

It was only when Abraxas was leaving the library a few minutes later that Tom pulled out his wand.

"Oh, and Malfoy," he called, causing the older man to turn back to face him, "I find that I much prefer being addressed as 'My Lord.' _Crucio_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rufus Scrimgeour was Head of the Auror Office in the early 90s, before he was promoted to Minister of Magic after Fudge left office. Until she was killed by Voldemort in 1996, Amelia Bones was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, of which the Auror Office is a subdivision, so she would have been Scrimgeour's boss.  
>  
> 
> In case there is any confusion on the subject: Since Harry was in the hospital wing directly after the Chamber incident, and indeed he didn't have the diary with him in any case, he didn't free Dobby as he did in canon.


	6. The Knights of Walpurgis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom meets with old friends and discovers a new part of himself.

Tom landed in front of a high iron gate that rose into spikes at least five feet above his head. Abraxas walked towards the gate and, with a shimmer of familiar Dark magic that Tom recognized as his own, passed directly through it. Tom followed him up a narrow walkway, peering through the unnatural Darkness on either side that stopped him from actually seeing more than a few feet away from the path. It was clearly malevolent. And clearly his own magic.

The house, at least what he could see of it, appeared to be an abandoned manor house built at least a century before. Abraxas had told him that the Muggle owners had been killed, but the entrance hall was still filled with unmoving Muggle portraits of the family that appeared to date back at least six or seven generations.

Abraxas breezed past them without looking and stopped in front of a pair of large double doors.

"Ah, Malfoy," came the hiss from inside, an odd mix of English with a Parseltongue accent.

He apparently took that as permission to enter and slipped through the doors, but Tom lingered outside, suddenly nervous about what he would find inside.

"My Lord, Edgar Bones is dead, along with his wife and children for good measure."

"Good, I am glad to hear it." Voldemort's voice was high and cold, and even Tom couldn't tell whether he was actually glad or just saying empty words. "Is this your doing?"

Tom didn't hear Abraxas's reply, because he had stepped through the door and was staring in horror at the mutilated face of his other self. The skin was as pale as snow and appeared stretched over features that seemed somehow blurred, as if someone had tried to erase a chalkboard but only succeeded in making a mess. The gleaming red eyes drew him in, and he felt like he was sinking deeper and deeper under black water.

He pulled himself out of the Pensieve so hard that he slammed himself against the back of his seat.

" _That_ …" he began, then trailed off, utterly unable to keep the shock and disgust out of his voice. He looked up at Malfoy, who was watching him nervously from a chair across from him. "How did  _that_  happen?"

"I don't know for sure, My Lord. In hindsight he began to change even when we were still in school." Here he glanced at Tom, who knew they were both thinking that it had probably started with his own creation. "It came on so gradually at first that those of us who spent time with him every day didn't notice any change. Then he left on his travels, and when I saw him later it was… shocking, My Lord. And he only got worse as the years went on. I can't even imagine the things he must have done to himself."

Tom could well imagine some of the things his other self had done. He had begun planning many things before he'd been put into the diary. What he couldn't imagine was why his other self hadn't stopped at the first sign of such horrible side effects.

"And his mental state?"

Abraxas looked pained for a moment, as if he were reluctant to answer truthfully lest Tom Cruciate him for it. "Similar to his physical state."

 _Was all of that just because of the Horcruxes? Or was he affected by other rituals or experiments, too?_  wondered Tom. If it had been just the Horcruxes, then he really had to wonder whether creating six of them was really such a great idea. Surely any benefits derived from having a seven-part soul couldn't possibly outweigh  _those_  consequences.

He let out a breath that was the only outward expression of his thoughts he would allow himself.

He needed the other Horcruxes before he went after his other self. He needed to study them, and, more importantly, if his other self was as affected mentally as he was physically, then he needed control of the other Horcruxes so that Voldemort wouldn't think he was expendable. Tom knew that if  _he_  were confronted with another version of himself popping up out of the woodwork, he would probably view it as a threat. He could only imagine how someone who had fallen as low as his other self would react. So an insurance policy was definitely needed.

Tom really didn't want to have to dodge Fiendfyre from Lord Voldemort.

"I need other followers. My Knights."

He didn't really want to involve anyone else, and he had been undecided about doing it until he'd seen Abraxas's memory. Now he knew that he couldn't do it without them, no matter how much it absolutely galled him to have to admit it, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. The time in the diary must have made him more circumspect, because he couldn't imagine thinking any such thing before.

Still, he would only use—and only reluctantly—those he knew personally.

Abraxas explained, "Rosier's dead. Broken heart, I think; he was a shell of a man after his only child was killed by Aurors. Avery died in a magical accident a couple of years ago. Dolohov is in Azkaban. Only Lestrange, Nott, and Mulciber are alive and free, excepting myself."

"Mulciber already knows, or at least suspects. He seemed hopeful at the idea of my return," Tom mused aloud.

"His son was caught near the end of the first war and put into Azkaban, and Mulciber lost his position at the Ministry as a result. It only made him more determined to follow you."

"What about Lestrange and Nott?"

"My Lord, you know that Lestrange would do anything you asked of him, especially with you looking like this." A smirk had appeared on his face, but at Tom's cold stare it quickly slipped back off. He cleared his throat. "He is loyal, My Lord. He has two sons who were sent to Azkaban for torturing Aurors in your name, and he gave up his post as a Hit Wizard rather than publically denounce their actions and therefore you. He's lucky he was able to escape and abscond to France before they could toss him into a cell next to his children."

If Tom recalled correctly, it had been Lestrange's ambition to become a Hit Wizard since before even coming to Hogwarts. If he was really willing to give it all up rather than denounce his lord, then he was indeed much more loyal than all of the others who had scrambled to convince the Ministry that they had never been his followers. ( _The Malfoys included_ , he thought bitterly.)

"And Nott?"

The corners of Abraxas's mouth tightened. "He was never suspected in the first war and has gone to great lengths to avoid those of us who were, or even those of us who have family members who were accused or convicted. He has a son Draco's age, but the boy has never been allowed to be friendly with Draco."

"That is a disappointment," said Tom, his voice cold and high.

"Yes, My Lord, but may I suggest—that is, you may not have considered, given that you only have memories up to a certain point, but many of the other Knights also had sons who were among your most trusted Death Eaters. Avery, for example—"

Tom pinned him with a calculating stare, and he immediately stopped talking.

"I have considered it." Tom offered no more explanation than that, but Abraxas bowed his head in deference and thought it best to remain silent.

* * *

The Muggles' prison was much more tolerable the next time Tom visited. Granted their physical states were worse—Granger's hair looked as if vermin had taken to living in it—but at least their closet was clean.

"You see that I have kept my word," Tom said to the girl. "I will likewise keep my word to make things much worse for you if you give me a reason. Will you cooperate now?"

She rose shakily from the bare floor, using the wall to support herself, and mutely followed him out of the closet. She looked longingly at the bed as they passed it, and she sighed as they passed the open bathroom door, but she kept her peace. She hesitated briefly when she caught sight of the same chair where he'd restrained her the last time, still sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, but at his pointed stare she gingerly lowered herself into it.

He saw no need for restraints at this point. He appeared to be gaining some modicum of her trust—or at least her reluctant faith that he would keep his word—and he had enough experience with weak children to know that he could get more out of her through mind games than through physical ones.

Still, he took out his wand. She flinched as he pointed it at her, then a glint of recognition lit up her dull brown eyes.

"Recognize it, do you? It's still his, you know. I didn't win it from him, but rather he carelessly threw it away in his haste to see about poor little dying Ginny. He's quite stupid, your friend; almost as stupid as you, the Mudblood who didn't have her wand on her when Lord Voldemort invaded her home."

She drew in an indignant breath but mercifully didn't speak. Tom smirked.

"Ah, good, you're learning. There might be hope for you yet." He pressed the tip of the wand to her temple and she drew in another breath, this time a gasp of fear. "It doesn't really matter that the wand isn't mine. It isn't as comfortable as my own wand, but I am extraordinary and can perform magic you can only dream of, Mudblood, even with my enemy's wand. For instance"—he pressed the wand harder into her skin—"I could invade your mind and take every thought, every memory, away from you. I could find out your worst nightmares and make you believe that you're living them until you go mad."

Granger shuddered but remained defiant.

Tom prodded her with the wand until she tilted her head back and met his eyes. "I can also take away everything that makes you who you are: your personality, your  _intelligence_ …. Imagine your poor parents' reactions when I return them a daughter who thinks she's a teapot, with the intelligence to match," he said casually, as if he were speaking to a friend over tea. "I think I'll let you keep your memories, though, so that you'll remember what you've lost."

He wasn't really good enough yet to do exactly what he'd said—certainly he could scramble her brains, but he didn't have the finesse he'd described—but he would be soon after he convinced his other self to teach him. And in any case, the Mudblood had no reason to doubt him.

Her eyes had gone wide now and she stared at him in horror, her gaze darting back and forth between each of his eyes as if trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He gave her a cold smile.

"Which is more important to you, Hermione Granger: your mind or your silly delusions about courage?"

He really ought to have phrased it as herself or her friend Harry Potter, but he figured that she would be more likely to succumb this way. He was correct, of course; she dropped her gaze to her lap and drew a shuddering breath.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Do?" he echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone. "That's an interesting turn of phrase, but I confess you'll have to give me time to think of things for you to  _do_  for me. For now I want the same as before: information."

She had stiffened again. "Please, I was telling the truth before. I—I really don't know anything else about the Chamber."

Tom stepped away from her, feeling no need to be in such close proximity now that she was cooperating.

"Indeed, I would have known immediately had you been lying. What I'm interested in is something else you mentioned: the previous time Harry Potter and I encountered one another."

She blinked up at him owlishly. "Th—the Philsopher's Stone, you mean? Do you need it for immortality even though you've already got another body?"

"It is not for you to question me, Mudblood!" he snapped. Internally, his thoughts were racing.  _The Philosopher's Stone… Of course! My other self is in need of a body. Could Potter have defeated him another time_? With barely any external pause, he continued, "You will tell me about our little adventure from Potter's perspective."

She bit her lower lip at his outburst but, after a short pause to collect herself, explained, "We found the Cerberus in the beginning of the year and I noticed that it was guarding a trapdoor, although we didn't learn until later what was down there. We thought all year that it was Professor Snape who was trying to steal whatever Fluffy was guarding, and that he was the one who let the troll into the dungeons as a distraction and cursed Harry's broom. I went for help while Harry faced you, so I didn't know until he told me afterwards that it was  _you_ —that you had possessed Professor Quirrel."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her.  _Possession, of course… He must be too weak to do much else without his own body._

"And how did Harry Potter defeat my—me?" he asked, almost slipping and saying "my other self."

Granger swallowed nervously. "It's like I said last time: Professor Dumbledore told Harry that Professor Quirrel couldn't stand his touch because  _you_  couldn't stand his touch, because his mother left him with protection on the night you killed her…. I—I'm sure that Professor Quirrel's body was only being kept alive through the possession because of the unicorn blood, so he was probably particularly susceptible to—"

"Yes, that's quite enough speculation from you, Mudblood," cut in Tom, even though he figured that she was probably entirely correct. He just didn't want to hear anymore.

Unicorn blood. Merlin and Morgana, what had his other self gotten himself into? He wondered if now he'd have to deal with some mystical unicorn curse on top of the already formidable obstacles associated with getting an at-least-half-mad Dark Lord a functioning body. It had better all be worth it—his other self better have retained his knowledge and experience—or else Tom was going to be severely put out by the whole thing.

* * *

Lucius was standing stiffly in the front drawing room when Tom Apparated back to the manor. He executed a formal bow that did nothing to hide his displeasure.

"My Lord, both Lestrange and Mulciber are waiting for you in Father's study."

Poor Lucius was taking it quite badly that Tom had called in other followers. Apparently he did not like to share.

"Time does tend to get away from me when I'm having fun," replied Tom.

He really had lost track of time, but truthfully he hadn't found his discussion with the Mudblood the least bit fun after she'd started her story. Now he found himself in the unenviable position of not being in control of the situation, and he mentally cursed himself and the Granger girl quite soundly as he walked towards Abraxas's study half a step behind Lucius.

Lucius stopped at the door and reached out to open it for Tom, but Tom smiled grimly and pressed his wand into the man's side. "After you."

Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise and a little fear, but he stepped through the door willingly.

Tom smirked a bit at his own paranoia about entering the room first or leaving Malfoy at his back, but all the same he kept his wand in his hand by his side as Lucius stepped aside and Tom stepped into the doorway. He knew that they couldn't really harm him short of using Fiendfyre or basilisk venom or something equally as destructive, but old habits died hard when he felt out of control.

Mulciber was staring at him with his mouth hanging open, and Lestrange's blue eyes were comically wide and his face pale as a sheet.

"Ah, My Lord, welcome back," greeted Abraxas, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards and a hint of humor in his voice. "As you can see, Richard and Rastaban had not quite accepted the idea that you could be back."

Lestrange stayed glued to his seat, his gaze likewise glued to Tom's face, but Mulciber flew out of his chair and onto his knees.

"My Lord, I had hoped for this since I heard the Potter boy speak about the diary!"

Tom allowed himself a brief smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his lips that everyone except Lestrange probably wasn't paying enough attention to catch. "Yes, I saw as much in Lucius's memory."

Lestrange startled out of his frozen stupor, apparently brought back to reality by the sound of Tom's voice. One moment he was in his chair and the next he had all but knocked Mulciber over in his haste to kneel before his lord. He didn't bow his head but stared up into Tom's eyes with a searching gaze.

" _Master_ ," he said on an exhale that seemed to have been torn from his throat. "Please believe that I never doubted your ability to return. I was only afraid that what Malfoy said was too good to be true!"

He seemed unable to say more but looked up at Tom imploringly.

Tom examined the lines around the man's eyes and mouth, which certainly had not been there the last time he'd seen Rastaban Lestrange. He wasn't sure that he would ever get entirely used to seeing the teenagers from his memories as middle-aged wizards fifty years later. By now Mulciber had righted himself and given Lestrange a little shove in retaliation that the man hardly seemed to notice. Tom did notice, and he curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth even as he gestured for the two to remove themselves from the floor.

"I wonder, with all of this dedication so freely offered to me now, why none of you"—here he looked up at the Malfoys to include them in his indictment—"bothered to try to find my other self in the intervening decade."

Mulciber and the Malfoys all flinched and opened their mouths to try to excuse themselves, but it was Rastaban who spoke first, as earnestly as Tom had ever heard anyone speak.

"I did try to find you—him! My sons were doing my bidding when they were caught, and after I fled the country to escape their fate, I followed every lead I was able to get from my contacts back in Britain. I swear it!"

"I well believe it coming from you," allowed Tom. Rastaban looked as if Tom had presented him with the grandest prize he could imagine. "Still, I doubt that Lord Voldemort will be particularly appeased by your hopes and dreams, given that they amounted to nothing."

Lestrange deflated all at once, looking as pained as if Tom had kicked him right in the bollocks. Tom did not soften his glare at all, but after a few moments he turned it on the other three occupants of the study.

"As for the rest of you, who never tried to find him at all, I imagine that he will be angry beyond all description. Yes," he added to preempt the words that were clearly on the tip of Lucius's tongue, "even at you, Lucius. Do you truly imagine that Lord Voldemort is going to be pleased that you released me into the world? Do you imagine that he will see me as anything other than a usurper that you unleashed by disobeying his explicit instructions to keep me hidden?"

Lucius looked ill, as did his father, who was clearly worried for his son's life.

"However…" he drew out until they were all hanging on his words, "if you help to bring him back now, then he might be more forgiving of your previous failures than otherwise. And, gentlemen,  _I_  will be pleased with your efforts should we succeed."

He did not feel the need to add that he would punish any of them who failed him. They all knew it; he was not as insane as Voldemort, but three of them well remembered his temper even at school, and Lucius had experienced enough of it in the past weeks since his return. Silence reigned as they all mulled over his words, until finally Lucius, by far the boldest of the group, ventured the question Tom knew they all wanted to ask.

"My Lord… Forgive me, I mean no offense and certainly no treason by asking, but I admit to being curious…. I wonder why—and please know that a word from you will silence me forever on the subject—you want to bring him back at all, if he will view you as a threat."

Tom laughed the high laugh that was utterly at odds with his appearance, and all four of them shuddered at the sound, more so Lestrange and Mulciber, who were as yet unused to hearing the sound again outside of their memories.

"Do you think that he will never find a way to return? He came close to succeeding a year ago and was only stopped through unforeseen circumstances beyond his control." Tom thought it best not to mention Lily Potter's apparent protection, or Potter's involvement at all. He allowed his cold gaze to take in all of their reactions. "I see that none of you had any inkling of this, although you certainly should have known that he cannot truly die and would have come back eventually."

He swept across the room and took a seat in one of the regal chairs across from Abraxas's desk. Mulciber and Lestrange, who had both been standing, immediately lowered themselves to their knees so as not to be higher than their lord. Lucius followed suit a second later, and Tom thought to himself that having his other Knights around was going to have a profoundly positive influence on the man.

"My friends, it is better that we take the dragon by the horns and control the circumstances of his return, than that we wait for that inevitable time when he manages it himself. This way you can earn some of his forgiveness, perhaps even his favor, and I can show him that I have no wish to be a threat to him."

Their expressions and a quick mental scan of their surface emotions told Tom that they were all on board with his plan and agreed that it was necessary and perhaps even the best course of action. He was glad that it had been so easy to gain their support by feeding into their fears and their hopes for Lord Voldemort's favor, because he could never have admitted the entire to truth to anybody.

That is, Tom was not going to get very far very quickly without his other self's expertise, and unbeknownst to them, his followers were going to help him gain the means to control Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Tom was absolutely incensed and not a little disbelieving. He had nearly cursed Lestrange for a presumptuous liar when he'd come forward with the information, but in the end he supposed that his other self probably  _was_  mad enough to have done it. And Lestrange had been nothing but earnest when he'd explained that the Dark Lord had given him one of his precious objects to keep in his Gringotts vault and had said enough to him that he believed one other was hidden in Tom's mother's house.

 _Little Hangleton_. It left a bitter trail through his mind when he mentally spoke the name. In one part of his mind it seemed like it had been only weeks since he'd come here, and in another part of his mind he fully felt the span of five decades between then and now.

_Did he absolutely lose his fucking mind?_

The welcoming wave of familiar Dark magic that washed over him as he approached the horrible little hut was answer enough, and he actually allowed a hiss to escape.

"Absolutely bloody barking!" he exclaimed in Parseltongue, addressing his other self as if he was actually there to hear Tom's rant. "Albus fucking Dumbledore knows our middle name, you utter idiot, and it isn't as if there's a surplus of Marvolos who speak Salazar's language forming a queue to get into Hogwarts! As if your bloody loose-lipped pillow talk with Lestrange wasn't bad enough!"

The door to the Gaunt shack was clearly heavily magically reinforced, and a brief examination revealed that it would take a blood sacrifice and a password to enter.

"Because Dumbledore couldn't at all manage to get past your little wards after you've left them here without any maintenance for who knows how long!" he continued to hiss aloud. "Open!"

The door opened for him without the sacrifice, and Tom hoped that it was only because it recognized his magic and not because the protections had deteriorated so much that they would have let anybody in without it.

He was still muttering to himself as he bent to fit through the low doorway, which is no doubt why it didn't immediately occur to him that the voice that greeted him was also in Parseltongue.

"Master?" it asked, sounding a bit torn about it. "You feel like him and speak like him, but you don't smell the same…."

Tom blinked and increased the intensity of his light to illuminate the entire room, which wasn't difficult given how cramped it was. There was a snake of unidentifiable species rearing up a body length away from him. The part of its body that was off the ground was almost as tall as he was, and the rest of its length was situated in large coils.

 _Oh, well, at least he thought to protect it using more than just a bloody door_! He almost rolled his eyes, but cursing his absent other self out in Parseltongue was quite enough childishness for one day.

Clearly the serpent was of magical origins, and although he couldn't identify it he assumed—hoped—that controlling it was much the same as controlling the basilisk.

He allowed his voice to fill with his magic. "I am your master. I have come to remove the ring from your care; it is no longer safe here. You will not hinder me."

The snake gave no response and made no move as he edged towards the corner of the little room that seemed to almost pulse with Dark magic, so he assumed that it had worked. Even if it hadn't and the snake decided to attack him suddenly, what were the chances that his other self had bred some new species of magical serpent with venom that worked like that of the basilisk?

Actually, now that he'd thought about it, Tom thought the chances were pretty high.

He kept one eye on the snake as he crept towards the small, elaborately decorated chest. Something inside pulsated in time with his own heart, and it was difficult to keep his attention trained on anything other than the feeling. His pulse hammered throughout his entire body and blood pounded in his ears, and his magic thrummed along with it in perfect sync with the Dark magic bleeding out of the chest.

He forgot entirely about the very real snake looming over him as he knelt down and ran his fingers reverently along the top of the lid. The carved snakes decorating the chest came to life and slithered toward his hand, hissing warm greetings and seeming to bask in the warmth of his magic.

With a last touch, he hissed, "Open, my love."

Whether the chest worked on the same Parseltongue password as the Chamber's entrance and the shack's door, or whether the Horcrux inside really had answered his call, Tom neither knew nor cared. The lid had clicked open and that was all that mattered. His uncle's ring gleamed up at him, its own inherent Darkness seeming somehow to have overtaken everything surrounding it. He reached out and caressed it, and it seemed to flood his body with itself and return the touch from the inside out.

Tom moaned from low in his throat, a completely involuntary action on his part. The other Horcrux seemed to pulse with reciprocated feeling.

He slipped the ring onto his finger, and all was right in the world for a few blissful seconds.

Then the pain shot through his finger and up his arm, and he hissed out several colorful phrases and ripped it back off his hand. The curse seemed to struggle to gain hold of his body, and he involuntarily shook his shriveled hand in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain, until finally the magic seemed to wear itself out. With nothing to latch onto, the curse dissipated, and Tom watched through narrowed eyes as his hand returned to normal, much more slowly than when he'd cut or burned himself but still quickly enough that he wasn't worried.

He opened his other hand to look at the ring resting innocently in his palm. It pulsed through him again, and Tom wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if it was laughing at him.

"Go ahead and have your laugh," he told it in their magical language. "You just wait and see whether I take the time to remove that curse."

This time Tom was quite sure that his fellow Horcrux pulsed in protest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edgar Bones was Madam Amelia Bones's brother. He was killed in the first war along with his entire family (as we find out from Susan Bones and Moody in OotP), and if you'll recall, Amelia Bones was killed in the summer of HBP, some think by Voldemort himself. (According to JKR's interviews, Edgar and Amelia's parents were also killed in the first war, but no one says this in the canon.)
> 
>  
> 
> As in my other story, I've used my little head canon here regarding Lestrange Sr's name. Rabastan is JKR's bastardization of the star's actual name, which is Rastaban (meaning "head of the serpent," actually in the constellation Draco), and it bugged me enough that I had to think of why the characters would have changed it. So in my head canon the brothers' mother dislikes her husband's given name and Sr. didn't win the battle to have his first son named after him, hence Rodolphus, but by the time the second son was born he'd managed to get his wife to accept the bastardized version, Rabastan.


	7. Magic Makes Might

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom engages in a bit of curse breaking and picks up a present for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is violence and non-consensual sexual activity in this chapter. Tom is an evil, sadistic little blighter. I have changed the rating to Explicit, but the lower (R) rated version is available at Fanfiction.net or Fiction Alley if you prefer (links on my profile page).

“My Lord, the risk of Lestrange going into Diagon Alley as himself is far too high! He will be arrested on sight if any Auror or Hit Wizard recognizes him!”

“It’s a risk that I have to take, My Lord! The goblins will never allow me to access my vault if I’m under the influence of any sort of potion or spell to conceal my identity!”

They had been discussing the subject of Lestrange safely accessing his Gringotts vault for the better part of an evening, and at this point the argument had gone around in circles. Tom had been lounging sideways across an overstuffed armchair, half of his attention on the ring he was idly weighing in his hand and the rest on his followers’ disagreement. It was always interesting to watch people on two sides of a debate bellow ineffectively at each other without realizing any common ground, and for Tom it was a nice opportunity to gauge the interactions between the four. It seemed that Lestrange had a special dislike of the Malfoys, and Mulciber was attempting to hedge his bets with both of them.

Finally, the noise became too grating on his nerves. Tom waved his hand lazily in the air, and the silence was immediate.

“Lestrange, you will travel to Gringotts under Polyjuice Potion. Your willingness to put yourself at risk for my benefit is admirable, but sacrificing yourself to Azkaban would not do either of us any good.” He turned his eyes to the Malfoys, who were looking quite smug that he had agreed with them. “In fact, he will go as one of you, and the other will accompany him. I expect that you will be in contact with the goblins beforehand to smooth the way.”

It was not an impossible task, especially when vaults the size of the Malfoys’ and Lestranges’ were involved, but dealing with the goblins was never _easy_. Abraxas and Lucius shared a glance full of trepidation.

* * *

The month it took Polyjuice Potion to simmer seemed interminable to Tom. Lucius had strongly favored the idea of simply obtaining the premade potion from his usual dealer, but under no circumstances would Tom leave such an important mission up to the reliability of a potion maker he didn’t know (and hadn’t threatened into compliance himself). No, for something as important as the retrieval of a Horcrux, he had to brew the potion himself.

The only problem was that it was _boring_. Certainly he didn’t mind the exact science of cutting and measuring and stirring, but thinking about keeping an eye on the potion as it simmered for hours and days at a time made even him who didn’t need sleep want to doze off from sheer boredom.

Unfortunately, Lestrange had always been absolutely dreadful at potions, and his remaining followers all had other things to work on, both for Tom and in their professional lives, and could not dedicate their full time to watching a cauldron simmer. However, Lucius had been quite happy to put forward his son, much to Abraxas’s anxiety and Tom’s amusement.

“You want me to accept a second-year student as suitable for this task?” he had asked, equal parts critical and curious.

“Third year!” Draco had butted in. Then he’d shrunk back against his father in horror and added, “My Lord.”

Tom had rewarded him with a baleful glare. “Third year, then.”

Lucius had flushed in embarrassment, but persuaded Tom quite admirably. “My son is particularly gifted in Potions, My Lord, and he does not have any other assignments or concerns to take his attention off of the potion, as the rest of us do. I am certain that he is more than capable of keeping an eye on it and ensuring that you stay on the brewing schedule.”

“There is merit in the idea,” Tom had allowed.

“I will take full responsibility for my son, My Lord. Although I am confident that it will be unnecessary.”

Tom had given them both a genuine smile filled with the full measure of his sadistic amusement. “Lucius, if your son fails, I will hold you both equally and fully responsible and make you each watch the other’s punishment. “

On the one hand Tom was pleased that the boy seemed particularly competent for the job after all, because it meant that they would successfully brew it with no mishaps. After the first awkward encounter, Draco had grown more confident in ordering Tom to the potions lab to perform some task or other. In turn, after critically evaluating Draco’s work the first few times, Tom had grown more confident in allowing him to do some of the menial slicing and dicing. They had forged a relatively smooth working relationship that was marred only by Draco’s lingering terror that he and his father would be tortured at the slightest mistake, which was, of course, completely true.

On the other hand, Tom was disappointed, because he had gotten his hopes up a bit that he’d get to act out all of the fantasies he’d been nursing about torturing father and son together. No doubt his other self would have invented a reason to act on his thoughts, if he even bothered with a pretext at all, but Tom was unfortunately not quite that mad yet.

The bright side was that his relationship with the youngest Malfoy continued to grow, and Tom was fairly certain that he would be able to turn Draco’s loyalty to himself in due time. Since spending more time in Draco’s presence, he had witnessed enough tiffs between Lucius and his son to allow him to conclude that Draco’s hero worship of his father was that of a child who had never had any occasion to think that his father might be fallible or that there might be someone smarter or stronger. Now that the boy was thirteen, the time seemed ripe for Tom to disabuse him of that notion.

Thus, whereas he usually all but completely tuned out the familial interactions of his hosts, on one morning near the end of the Polyjuice’s brewing cycle, Tom paid attention to the disagreement between Lucius and Draco at the breakfast table.

“But I’m thirteen years old! I think I’m old enough to handle it!” cried Draco with the attitude of a boy who had not yet realized that if he had to repeat his age as proof of his maturity, then it was not really proof of his maturity at all.

“I said no, Draco. Your continued entreaties will not change my decision.”

Draco glowered at his father. “Do you expect me to go back to school with nothing more than _Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed_ under my belt? When do you expect that I’ll be old enough to crack open a _useful_ book?”

“When I say so,” drawled Lucius from behind his newspaper, completely unbothered, “and not a moment before.”

That afternoon in the library, his son was still visibly sullen, though it had hardly affected his work earlier in the potions lab. After all, he was undoubtedly too terrified of Tom to allow their potion to suffer.

Finally, after several hours of putting up with it, Tom finished adding information from his current book to his already mountainous stack of notes and turned his attention to Draco.

“Which book has caused all of this trouble?”

Draco started in surprise, as he usually did when Tom unexpectedly broke the silence between them, and looked up at him with wide eyes.

“ _A Theory of Modern Dark Arts_ ,” he answered, a little scowl on his lips.

 _Hardly modern anymore_. _It was already twenty years old when I read it_. _Still_ , thought Tom, picturing the pages in his mind, _it has its uses_.

Lucius was not wrong that his son was too young for it, although Tom was sure that simply explaining why to Draco could have avoided all of this intolerable sulking. The title was appealing for anyone who was looking for a place to begin an in-depth study of the Dark Arts, but in reality following the text required quite a thorough knowledge of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Tom had bullied one of the older Slytherins into getting it for him out of the restricted section during his first year, before any of the professors had begun agreeing to write him passes of his own, and barely thirty seconds after he’d opened it he’d been demanding that his fellow Slytherin let him borrow his Arithmancy and Ancient Runes textbooks as well.

Although Tom had taught himself the basics of those two subjects during his first term at Hogwarts, he doubted that Draco would be able to appreciate _A Theory of the Modern Dark Arts_ before at least the end of the upcoming school year.

He Summoned it from one of the upper shelves of the Malfoy library and sent it flying towards Draco, who stared in surprise between Tom and the book hovering in front of him. Then he hesitantly reached for it and, when a few seconds passed without Tom punishing him (or his father popping out of the woodwork to berate him), he opened to the first page.

It took less time than Tom had predicted before Draco, a look of mild disgust passing over his features, said, “Honestly! ‘This book will attempt to explain how the complex relationship between the runic bases of the oldest Dark magic and the modern Latin usage can be simplified using the new and exciting breakthroughs in our understanding of arithmantical principles in order to seamlessly bring the most ancient of the Dark Arts into a new era,’ really?”

“Abrams isn’t the most concise of authors,” allowed Tom, although he knew that wasn’t what Draco meant.

“Not that!” cried Draco, apparently forgetting to be absolutely petrified of Tom. “Why didn’t Father just tell me that this is what the book is about?”

Tom shrugged carelessly. “I do not pretend to understand why adults feel the need to assert their own dominance as if it’s actually an answer to anything, rather than simply explain things to children.”

Draco laughed. Tom magically took the heavy book from Draco’s lap and sent it back to its place.

“Abrams’ argument is incorrect, in any case,” Tom explained as he shuffled through his many notes. “However, it has been accepted as true by the majority of practitioners, and that is why so many Dark wizards have trouble learning even the basics, much less creating anything new.”

He thought privately to himself that this was probably how the elder Avery had managed to kill himself in a magical accident. Avery had always been brilliantly creative but without the requisite skill in Arithmancy to safely conduct the experiments he dreamed up.

“Perhaps if you can ever work out for yourself what Abrams got wrong,” he continued, “then I will think about sharing some of what I know with you. No cheating, mind you; I’ll know immediately if you’ve asked your father or grandfather to help you.”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up in pride and pleasure. “Oh, thank you, My Lord! I’ll figure it out, I promise! Arithmancy and Ancient Runes might be boring subjects, but I’ll put all of my effort into learning them if you will be my reward!”

The ghost of a smile flitted across Tom’s lips at Draco’s innocence in proclaiming Tom as his reward. Undoubtedly the boy had no idea at the sexual suggestion in his words and had only meant that his reward would be his lord’s time and knowledge.

“It’s boring to learn them at first, that’s true. It’s rote memorization, just like when you were memorizing your multiplication tables. However,” he added, the tone of his voice taking on an excitement that had Draco leaning forward in his chair, “once you have learned the basics, an entire world of magical knowledge is at your fingertips. You can understand how and why spells work and potions ingredients interact in certain ways. It’s like how after you learn multiplication, suddenly the world of division and algebra and more advanced mathematics is open to you.”

Draco looked so enraptured by what he was saying that he had the rashest idea he’d had in a while. He carefully put his notes back in order after he’d removed the bit of parchment he needed. Then he glanced up and allowed his eyes to meet Draco’s.

“Come here and I will give you a demonstration.”

The boy came without hesitation, as if he fully trusted Tom. Even though that was what Tom wanted, he still found himself disapproving of the willingness to trust that Draco, like most children with loving and protecting parents, tended to display so easily. For all he knew, Tom was planning on experimenting on him!

Draco came to a stop in front of his chair, and Tom motioned for him to stand at his side instead. With Draco looking over his shoulder, he levitated the Gaunt ring in front of himself and spread his notes out across his lap and the arms of the chair. He waved his wand at the ring until a black shadow was visible swirling around and through it, like ink slowly seeping into parchment and spreading its stain across the page.

“It’s cursed, you see?” he asked, and he sensed rather than saw Draco’s affirmation. “I could analyze the effects of the curse using various methods learned across the fields of Defense, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy.”

Draco’s arm appeared suddenly in front of him, and he felt the boy lean close against his back in order to reach over his shoulder and point at the uppermost corner of his notes.

“That’s what you’ve written here?”

Tom found, to his own great amusement, that he didn’t much mind the littlest Malfoy being so presumptuous with his person. Or at least he didn’t mind enough to curse him for it. He _had_ been encouraging the familiarity, had he not?

“Yes.” He ran a long finger down the parchment, pointing out the various runic notations one by one. “This one is for death. This one wilting. Strength. Proliferation. Preservation. Pain….” He pointed to the next section of his notes. “Then I could translate the runes into their arithmantical equivalencies.”

The body behind him was almost bouncing up and down in excitement, and Draco’s voice was hardly any more measured. “Oh, and then you could use the Arithmancy formulas to figure out how it would all work together!”

Tom’s calculations went on for almost a full eighteen inches of his small, spidery script. It had been vastly complex, and most of his efforts over the past month had been in teaching himself various advanced topics in Arithmancy that he had never learned before going into the diary.

It had been made even more complicated by the fact that his other self had apparently figured out a way to modify the usual magic using Parseltongue, and Tom had found himself having to isolate the changes and use them to try to reconstruct the Parseltongue runic alphabet that Voldemort had apparently created.

Really, he was exceptionally good, but if he’d had a smaller sample size and hadn’t happened to more or less share a mind with the creator, he would never have been able to suss out even half it. Even another Parseltongue wouldn’t have been able to recreate Voldemort’s work, and someone who couldn’t speak the language had absolutely no chance of countering the curse.

It was absolutely brilliant, and he wanted to kick himself for not having thought of casting spells in Parseltongue before.

He allowed his finger to skim over the rest of his calculations and onto his second piece of parchment. “Indeed. The next step is to use the same process, only backwards, to figure out how to produce a counter-curse, much like how one would produce an antidote in Potions. I was planning to try it now, if you would back up.”

Draco leapt backwards immediately, and Tom didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the boy’s face was probably mottled with a mixture of embarrassment and terror. He spared a small smirk of sadistic pleasure, but his focus almost immediately turned to the task at hand.

It would be horrifically embarrassing if his attempt failed in front of Draco.

He raised Potter’s wand and squared his shoulders, then hissed out the incantation in the serpents’ language.

The effect was immediate, like a clap of thunder rolling through Tom and Draco’s bodies and rattling the bookcases and all the ancient portraits hanging on the walls. The ring clattered to the floor, but the malevolent magic of the curse hovered in the air for a few seconds even after it had gone. Then it darted towards them with a seemingly sentient purpose.

Tom felt like he was greeting an old friend, but even as the magic crashed into him like a great wave he still had enough presence of mind to quickly erect a Shield Charm in front of Draco.

Then he was lost in the feeling.

Great Merlin, the _power_. The sheer power. It was beautiful.

He felt like he had cast some sort of sex spell on himself, and he felt his eyes roll back into his head as the waves of pleasure and glorious pain rolled through his entire body

When he came to, he found that he had managed to leave his chair and end up sprawled on the library floor surrounded by parchment. He had an almost painful erection.

Draco was leaning over him with eyes the size of Galleons and a mouth that had dropped open almost as wide. He reached out as if he thought to offer some kind of aid to his master, but then he hesitated and left his hands hovering in midair between them.

“You were…” He trailed off and swallowed uncomfortably, his gaze darting down to Tom’s lap and then up to his half-closed eyes, then back down to the tented fabric at the front of his trousers and finally away to anything that wasn’t Tom. “You were, erm… screaming.”

A nearly hysterical laugh escaped Tom’s throat. “Was I?”

The library doors crashed open and hit the walls on either side with a bang, and Tom turned his head in time to see all three of the older Malfoys pushing past each other trying to be the first through the opening. With a strength he hadn’t known she possessed, Narcissa Malfoy shoved her much larger husband out of her way and nearly sprinted across the enormous room to gather her son up into her arms.

“Oh, my baby! You’re all right!” she cried, dragging his head against her breast as if he were an infant who needed his mother’s comfort. “I was so worried! There was that awful banging and the _screaming_ …!”

Draco Malfoy apparently respected his mother’s supposed feminine delicacy far too much to shove her away from him, no matter how much he appeared to want to. No doubt this was a result of his father treating his mother as if she were a priceless porcelain doll.

Lucius wrapped his arms around his wife and son, seemingly having no desire whatsoever to offer Draco any assistance in the matter.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted irritably. “It wasn’t even me who was screaming, anyway. Ask the Dark Lord, he’ll tell you.”

“My Lord?” asked Abraxas, who had come to stand beside his family and place a supportive hand on his son’s shoulder. His voice was as full of confusion as Lucius’s expression.

Tom levered himself up onto his elbows and shifted to try to conceal his erection, although there was hardly any chance of that.

“Just a bit of curse breaking gone, uh… wrong.” He reached for the ring, which had landed on the floor just beside him. “I’m curious, though. Exactly what was your plan when you came crashing in here, if I _had_ been torturing the boy?”

None of the Malfoys looked like they were prepared to answer, although Narcissa shuddered and clutched her son even tighter to her breast, which produced an indignant sound from him, muffled though it was by her robes.

“I see,” said Tom, although he supposed that it wasn’t nearly as threatening as it ought to have been what with his voice still full of sex and a despicable dreaminess. The ring was practically vibrating with excitement in his hand, and he offered it a dreamy “Hello to you, too!” before slipping it onto his finger at long last.

Abraxas and Lucius were staring at him as if he had lost his mind. He probably had, of course.

He grinned and clambered to his feet, holding out his hand until his wand flew from wherever he’d lost it and connected with his palm. It sparked violently when he closed his fingers around it.

He had so much energy, so much _power_ , flowing through him.

He wanted—no, needed—to kill something. And then to come. Not necessarily in that order. He wasn’t feeling particularly picky.

Tom wordlessly left the Malfoys standing together in the library staring after him as he headed towards the front drawing room.

* * *

Tom appeared… Well, he wasn’t entirely sure where he’d appeared. His mind was flitting between various thought so rapidly that he was lucky he hadn’t splinched himself.

He snorted; as if Tom Riddle had or ever would splinch himself!

He appeared to be in a Muggle neighborhood in the city. It was dusk, and the street was nearly deserted, although lights were on in most of the buildings on either side of the street. He could see Muggles engaged in various activities within, and he wondered that they didn’t feel like they were part of a zoo exhibit, being on display like that to anyone who looked into the windows.

He reached down absently to adjust his still half-hard member into a more comfortable position and started off towards the street corner. He nearly missed a step when he saw the signs proclaiming the name of the two intersecting streets, then spun around to face the direction from which he’d come.

The building at the end of the street appeared to be an office building with, from what he could make out of the signs from so far away, a dentist’s office and various other businesses.

There was no orphanage.

Why had he been thinking of this place, of all the places in the world?

Tom gave himself a firm shake, not that it did much to clear the foggy quality of his thoughts. The ring was vibrating around his finger, and the power of the curse was still flowing through his veins. _Oh well_ , he thought, and with a shrug he set off again down the street to see if the park where the orphans used to play was still there. It turned out that although nearly everything else had changed, the park was where it had always been, although its landscape had been altered over the years.

It appeared to be deserted this late in the evening, except, as Tom had half expected, for a pair of Muggle teenagers who were snogging quite vigorously on a picnic table.

The ring thrummed so hard that Tom’s arm vibrated, and he reached down with his other hand to adjust it on his finger.

“My thoughts exactly.”

The girl noticed him first, and she reared back from her partner with a little gasp of surprise. She was quite pretty, and even though Tom’s interests didn’t primarily lay with girls, even he had to admit that the lacy pink contraption encasing her large breasts looked very alluring. The girls he’d been with fifty years ago hadn’t worn anything like that.

Her boyfriend spun around to face him, and Tom was quite pleased that he was also a very nice specimen. If it had to be Muggles, at least it was attractive ones. And it really did have to be Muggles, unfortunately, given that he wasn’t at Hogwarts anymore and couldn’t exactly go around doing this in wizarding villages without drawing attention to himself. Oh well, he could make do.

“Who’re you?” demanded the boy angrily. “What do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see that we’re busy?”

Tom allowed his gaze to travel over the pair. “I can see that, yes.”

In the next second, the boy had collapsed on the ground in agony, his screams echoing off the trees and making lovely music in Tom’s ears and bringing his erection back in full force.

“WHAT DID YOU DO!” screeched the girl. “STOP IT! MAKE IT STOP!”

“But he screams so prettily,” declared Tom. “You, on the other hand, do not.”

It was even easier than usual for him to cast another spell while maintaining the power on his first one. The girl stopped screeching and began undressing herself under the effects of the Imperius Curse even as her boyfriend continued to writhe and scream in the grass. She had small, dusky nipples, a trim waist, and a neat patch of dark hair at the junction between her shapely thighs. Tom took it all in as she walked calmly over to him and knelt on the ground before him. He undid his trousers, and his ring seemed to be dancing on his finger.

He released the male but immediately petrified him instead, using his magic to forcefully turn the boy’s head so that he had to watch through his unblinking eyes.

Then he released the girl from the curse.

She gasped and would have flung herself backwards away from him if Tom hadn’t violently curled his hand—the one with the ring—into her long brown hair. She couldn’t even turn her face away from his erection.

“I want you to suck it,” he informed her just as casually as if he were talking about the weather. “And if you use your teeth, I will remove them from your pretty mouth one by one. Do you understand?”

She attempted to nod in the affirmative and winced in pain as the movement ripped at the hair he was gripping. Satisfied, he released his hold. She hesitated and allowed her eyes to dart over to her unmoving boyfriend, but when Tom’s hand came back up towards her head, she flinched and quickly closed the distance between them. Her mouth was warm and wet, of course, but she wasn’t putting any effort into it at all, just holding him there.

Tom sighed in exasperation and used his hand on the back of her head to force his cock down her throat. She choked, which thankfully, _finally_ , felt absolutely fantastic.

He tightened his fingers through her hair again. “You had better make this enjoyable or else I’ll use your cunt instead.”

Her eyes were wild and frightened, but she seemed to make the right decision. She brought her tongue up to delicately caress him and applied enough suction to make him moan in appreciation.

Tom wouldn’t allow her to move far enough back that he completely left her throat, but she moved back as far as she could. He was okay with it, since the great sobs that were wrenching her body and her continued gagging make her throat convulse quite pleasantly around the head of his dick.

Still, in short order he became bored with the apparently limited number of tricks she seemed to know how to perform with her mouth. He held her head in place and thrust his hips against her face. She made sounds of distress, and from the convulsions he could tell that she was choking quite violently, but he didn’t care.

He spilled down her throat with a groan.

As soon as he released her, she threw herself to the side and got sick into the grass.

“Disgusting,” sneered Tom. “You do know how to ruin a moment. _Avada Kedavra_.”

Her body fell forward into her own vomit. He stepped around her gingerly, as if his shoes might become contaminated just from getting too close, and headed towards the boy. He was obviously still where Tom had left him, but there were tears streaming out of his open eyes and down his frozen cheek onto the ground below him.

“I was going to let her live, you know, so that you could watch each other with me,” he explained calmly, infusing his voice with pity he didn’t really feel. “However, it’s probably for the best that I didn’t. I imagine that you would have continued to put up a fight on her behalf if you knew she still lived. Hopefully after what you’ve witnessed you’ll be smarter than to keep resisting me.”

Eyes glared up at him in defiant hatred, although the Muggle wasn’t able to move a muscle.

Tom laughed, high and cold. “I see that I’m mistaken! No matter. It will make it all that much sweeter for me to have to break your spirit through more physical means.”

He levitated his prisoner up so that he could grab onto one of his beefy arms, then Disapparated them away from the park and into the Malfoys’ front drawing room.

Abraxas and Lucius were apparently waiting for him. They sat together on one of the green velvet sofas, staring in various degrees of surprise at the spectacle he made with his disheveled clothing and floating victim.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Tom told them jovially. “I just picked myself up a little present.”


	8. The Webs We Weave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom begins constructing his framework in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken much longer than usual. I'm in the middle of exams; in fact, I had a four-hour tax exam today. It was as horrible as it sounds. (I've alleviated the pain somewhat by including a tax joke in this chapter, but it probably isn't recognizable or funny to anyone but me.) The exam period extends until the end of next week, but after that I should be back on a normal schedule.

When Tom became aware of his surroundings, he was in a graveyard standing in front of a larger than life statue of the Angel of Death. The full moon illuminated its skeletal face and enormous scythe, and Tom only had to lean forward slightly to make out the names etched into the elaborate display.

_Thomas Riddle. Mary Riddle._

He blinked once, but the names didn't change.

"What the hell?"

"It's terribly dreary, isn't it?" came the response from directly behind him. "Only imagine not being able to meaningfully experience anything other than this for years untold."

For a split second, Tom was convinced that he was imagining things, but then he realized exactly what was happening. He turned slowly, his movements deliberate and in no way giving away his surprise or anxiety. His own face stared back at him from a couple of a feet away, an intensity in his expression that made Tom understand from an outside perspective why people were so terrified of him.

"But of course you know how it is, even though you've managed to escape somehow," the Horcrux continued, his eyes roaming over Tom's face. "Although I imagine that being stuck at Hogwarts is immeasurably better than being stuck in this bloody Muggle graveyard."

Tom had already opened his mouth to say that actually he'd been quite able to imagine himself to any number of other locales, before he realized that this Horcrux obviously had not had that experience. That had to be important somehow, but it probably would not be a good idea to point out the difference to someone who had been stuck looking at his filthy Muggle family's graves with no real way to measure time.

Instead he filed away that information for later thought and said, "It's been fifty years, assuming that you were created soon after I was. Not quite years untold, but I know exactly what you mean."

The Horcrux's nostrils flared, and he took a step closer so that they were mere inches apart, almost touching.

"Fifty years," he hissed. "It seems longer… and shorter."

Tom felt the corner of his mouth quirk up involuntarily. "I know."

His other self brought his hand up as if to touch Tom, then stopped just short of actual contact. Their eyes met, and Tom was sure that he saw hope and desperation and madness in that gaze. He could understand that; he still felt it all himself.

He reached out with his own hand so that they met in the middle. As soon as their palms touched, the Horcrux gasped and closed his fingers hard around Tom's, as if he was afraid that Tom would pull away. Of course he had no intention of that, and likewise he didn't resist when the Horcrux closed the distance between them and all but pressed their bodies together.

"My God…" the Horcrux moaned somewhere in the vicinity of Tom's ear. "My God…"

Tom had consciously exchanged his Muggle expressions for wizard ones as soon as he had entered the magical world at age eleven. He hadn't referenced any god in years, so he knew that the Horcrux must be absolutely overwrought to have forgotten himself so thoroughly that he reverted to that terminology.

He—and Tom really must think of something to call him other than "the Horcrux," he thought—held fast to Tom's hand, but he ran his free hand over Tom's form in the same way Tom had seen concerned parents check small children over for injuries. The touch felt solid, but he was ice cold to the touch and his chest did not rise and fall with breath. Tom imagined that it must be like embracing a corpse, and it took all he had not to shiver. Only the knowledge that he had been exactly the same until he'd regained a body, and that he would have done anything or killed anyone to feel someone's touch, stopped him from pulling away.

"You're real," the Horcrux told him. " _I'm_ real…. I had begun to doubt…."

"I know," repeated Tom. He brought his free hand up to clasp the Horcrux's bicep.

The Horcrux shuddered against him.

"I can feel what you do… I can  _feel_  it!" A laugh erupted from his throat, crazed and uncontrolled. "Will you let me see?"

Tom could well understand his desire to actually experience things, even secondhand. Of course he knew himself, and therefore he knew that he couldn't trust this version of himself. He wasn't entirely sure that the Horcrux would actually be able to mount any sort of assault on his mind, given that he was a Horcrux himself and not an actual human being, but Tom had no doubt that he would try. All of the various variables flashed through his mind in seconds, and in the end he decided that the need to gain the Horcrux's cooperation and keep his own doubts hidden as much as possible outweighed any risks, especially since he was sure the Horcrux would want to gather information and wouldn't simply attack him the first time he was allowed into Tom's mind. He would first want to know how Tom had escaped, at the very least.

"Any preferences?"

He could feel the Horcrux's glee in his own consciousness.

"Anything."

Then they were spinning through darkness interspersed with flashes of memories, some shared between them and some new ones Tom had made for himself. The Horcrux had moved to stand beside him, but their hands remained clasped. He squeezed Tom's fingers when the memory of torturing Abraxas and Lucius in the library flashed by, and Tom focused on the scene.

It was like viewing himself in a Pensieve, and the Horcrux went to stand beside Memory Tom as the apparition threaded his hand violently through Lucius's hair. It was actually quite interesting to view the events from a third-person perspective. In the moment he hadn't been able to focus on the results of his actions, but now he stood beside the Horcrux looking down at the expression of agony that twisted Abraxas's face under the effects of Tom's childhood torture curse. His eyes were screwed shut and his jaw was clenched so as not to scream, while his hands were tensed into claws and his arms and legs were curling towards his body. Tom knew that it was the perfect result of the muscle contractions built into his curse, and the Horcrux seemed to appreciate it as much as he did.

When the torture ended, Tom guided them out of his mind and back into the graveyard. They landed on top of their father's grave, which was somehow fitting, and the Horcrux smiled.

Then Tom was blinking up at the dark green canopy of his bed in Malfoy Manor. It took him a few seconds to realize that he must have been asleep—or at least unconscious and, instead, inside the Horcrux's consciousness.

The movement that had woken him up drew his attention again. Something was in the bed with him. Tom shot up into a sitting position and immediately regretted it. He felt lightheaded and weighted down all at once, and he was only glad that he wasn't an actual human being or else he felt like he might have been sick all down his front.

Tom had never been one for drinking—his earliest experiences with alcohol had been with gin, which was prescribed by the matron of the orphanage to cure all sorts of ills. It made him associate the distinctive burn of alcohol with medicine, which rather ruined the whole effect for him. At Hogwarts he had the opportunity to indulge through the widespread black market in the Slytherin dorms, but at first he had thought that he had much better ways to spend the few Sickles and Knuts he managed to save from his scholarship allotment each year, and later, after watching his dorm mates imbibe, he had determined that being drunk would make him weak and vulnerable.

But what he was experiencing now felt like everything he had ever heard about hangovers, multiplied several times.

The Horcrux was flooding his consciousness with its fury and fear at being left alone again, which made things worse.

When he felt more in control of his body again, he turned his head and took in the form of the rather large young man who was bound face-down with his arms stretching out before him and attached to the headboard with heavy magical chains. Images of the night before flashed in his mind, brief snatches of motion and speech that flitted away before he could firmly grasp any of them. He could well fill in the blanks, however, by observing the dried blood and semen and other conspicuous materials covering the Muggle's body, particularly his lower half.

The Muggle had stopped struggling against his bonds (the movement that Tom assumed had woken him up), but he was glaring at Tom as best he could in his position. The effect was lessened by his puffy, red-rimmed eyes and the fact that he'd been magically gagged… not that his glare would have had any effect on Tom under any circumstances, of course.

Tom cast a quick glance over the magical bonds to satisfy himself that he'd managed to actually secure them in whatever state he'd been in last night, then he rolled out of bed and squished the thick carpet between his toes on his way to the palatial bathroom. He winced a bit at his tender groin when he stepped up into the shower, but the steaming water pouring across his body quickly soothed any ills, and he thought that he might even be up for another go soon.

He thought that the next time he visited the Horcrux, perhaps he would like to experience the basic luxuries of a hot shower and a warm body underneath him.

* * *

The end of the week found Tom in the library chewing on the end of his quill. He had worked through every book in the Malfoys' library that could possibly be relevant to his situation, and he hadn't really found any answers. It was to be expected, he supposed, given that no one had created multiple Horcruxes before, and no Horcrux that he was aware of had ever obtained its own body.

How could anyone be expected to write anything helpful about something no one except him had ever imagined in their darkest dreams?

He had thoroughly investigated Draco's memory of the curse breaking. It was probably the oddest thing he'd ever seen to witness himself thrashing around and screaming in practically orgasmic bliss and then acting like a drunken fool afterwards. But at least he had been able to conclude that his other self's magic affected him like some sort of intoxicating aphrodisiac.

It was most tempting to seek out more of it.

At the same time, Tom felt like he should do everything in his power to avoid it.

If that were the only thing he had to worry about, he might have been okay. However, the question of his own abilities and limitations as a Horcrux was extremely pressing now that he was in contact with another one, and on top of that he had about a dozen more questions after learning that the Horcrux in the ring hadn't been able to escape the graveyard.

The Malfoys' reactions to the entire episode were also quite troublesome. Tom would have had to be a fool to trust the men who had swindled the Ministry into believing that they'd never willingly associated with Lord Voldemort, and he was no fool. Now he was doubly suspicious.

As the littlest Malfoy wandered into the library, Tom decided that he would deal with that problem quite neatly. His plans for Draco and his plans for the Granger girl were both entirely within his own control, and acting on things within his own control soothed him in a way that nothing else could. His pet Muggle could testify to that.

"Ah, Draco," he said in a suitably pleased tone, "your timing is impeccable. I want to speak with you, if you have time to spare."

Ever since the incident, Draco seemed to vacillate more than ever between being comfortable around him and being terrified of him. Today he was apparently feeling the former, because at Tom's words his entire face brightened and he came to sit on the floor at Tom's feet without waiting for further invitation.

"My Lord, I always have time for you," Draco informed him in a voice full of so much earnest feeling that it made Tom's teeth ache.

Of course he knew that, both because no one around him would ever dare deny him and also because he had been diligently making strides in his Legilimency. He had only phrased the order as if it were a request to put his prey at ease by portraying himself in a kind light.

When he patted the boy's head as if he were one of Lucius's wolfhounds, Draco preened under the attention.

"Tell me, how far have you read in the books I recommended to you?"

Draco was an eager pupil, but he was not the most brilliant student Tom had ever met (even excluding himself, since it was unfair to compare anyone's intelligence to his own). Draco was naturally very good in Potions and Defense, but he was only average or perhaps a bit above in Charms and Transfiguration and had to work quite hard to master those kinds of spells. This made teaching him the Dark Arts something of a challenge, but Tom had persisted in order to gain his loyalty over that towards his father, who had refused to teach him much more than the basics that every child from a Dark family learned.

Tom suspected that Lucius had hoped his son wouldn't follow in his footsteps, and refusing to teach him Dark magic had been some sort of vain effort towards that goal. But now he appeared to view Tom as the lesser of two evils and to hope that he would be able to offer Draco some protection when Lord Voldemort returned.

"I finished them yesterday morning, My Lord," answered Draco. Then, knowing that Tom would want to hear his interpretation of what he'd learned, he added, "It's important to learn how to do magic wordlessly and, as much as possible, wandlessly, because safely performing the Dark Arts requires a lot more control over one's magic than most wizards have."

He was clearly expecting some sort of praise, but Tom was unimpressed. He raised one suspicious eyebrow. "And how much of it have you been able to apply?"

"Oh, well…" Draco blushed and looked down at his hands. "I can do some basic spells wordlessly, but I haven't been able to manage any offensive or defensive spells yet."

Over their weeks working together, Tom had managed to get Draco to move past his habit of grossly exaggerating to make himself look better. Nothing had been more effective than Tom purposefully taking Draco at his word and hexing the stuffing out of him with the expectation that he'd be able to shield himself as he'd bragged he could. Draco obviously still hated to be embarrassed by admitting that he hadn't been able to do something, but that was infinitely preferable to being hexed to bits by Tom.

Tom let out a breath of frustrated acceptance. He really wasn't suited at all to being a teacher, as he barely had even as much patience as an angry mother dragon, and he especially didn't have much patience to try to figure out ways to explain things he'd simply known intuitively since before even going to Hogwarts. He reminded himself quite firmly that it was in his own best interest—and that it was his own plan!—to claim Draco Malfoy as one of his own, not only because he would need his own followers separate from his other self's but also because if he controlled the child then he controlled the parents, no matter who they'd actually sworn loyalty to.

He turned a steely gaze back to his student and tried to decide how to articulate the feeling of being one with his magic in a way that Draco would understand.

* * *

Draco would have probably been absolutely horrified, Tom reflected the next day, to know that Tom was actually looking rather more forward to dealing with the Mudblood than to spending more time with him. Being charming had always been a particularly exhausting form of hell for him, no matter how good at it he'd been (and he'd been the best). On the other hand, playing mind games was his bread and butter. He had been anticipating the Grangers girl's reaction to his offer for days, gleefully planning how he'd handle every minute variation.

He was nearly grinning when he entered the little cottage, but he managed to school his face into his usual impassively handsome mask before he opened the closet. The Grangers peered out at him from the darkness, and Tom leaned casually against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I have been told that you are intelligent, Mudblood," he told her, enjoying the way she jerked at his words. "Although I have not seen much evidence of it firsthand, it has occurred to me that I could put you to some use."

His Legilimency allowed him to read her defiant emotions before she even declared, "I won't help you."

Mrs. Granger flinched as if she knew exactly how stupid that was of her daughter, and Tom turned his eyes onto the older woman just for the satisfaction of seeing her cower backwards into her corner.

Tom twisted his mouth into a patronizing smile. "You already have, Mudblood. Do you not remember the information you gave me in exchange for your own well-being? If you have changed your mind, I can always—" But she had frozen at the sight of his wand, which he'd produced seemingly from thin air. His smile widened. "Ah, I see that we still understand one another."

She clambered to her feet without another word and with a decided droop to her shoulders.

Tom smirked to himself as he led her through the bedroom; her reactions were just what he had predicted.

"Now, I suspect you might even enjoy this task," he said as he entered the kitchen ahead of her, "and then you'll have quite a bit of egg on your face for that abysmal behavior earlier."

He stepped aside to reveal that the kitchen table was covered with stacks of books and unused parchment. Her eyes, which were already a bit less defiant and a bit more defeated, lit up with interest that she tried and failed to hide. He'd been more than correct that the way to Hermione Granger's heart was through books.

He waved his arm to indicate that she could approach the treasure trove. "They range from the ancient to the beginning of this century, and none of them have such luxuries as tables of contents or indexes. You're to synthesize the information in each book."

Tom really did want them indexed and catalogued for his own use, and he really didn't have the time or patience to do it himself. But having Hermione Granger do it was little more than an exercise in manipulation and fact finding. The task would make her happy and was the perfect opportunity to slowly introduce her to the world of magic beyond the levitation charms and button-to-beetle transfigurations she'd learned at Hogwarts… to introduce her to  _real_  magic. Of course he'd actually already read all of the books he'd given her for this first go around, but he wouldn't tell her that. He wanted to judge the true extent of her intelligence, and to do that he had to know the subject matter at hand so he could evaluate her work.

She eyed the tomes hungrily. He knew then that he already had her, but he still had to make sure that the entire state of affairs was laid out on the table. He stepped between her and the books and fixed her with a serious gaze.

"I will allow you to remain outside of the closet even when you are not working, as long as you meet my standards."

It was unnecessary to mention that if she failed then her situation would be worse than it had ever been before. Indeed, mentioning it would have been counter to what Tom was trying to accomplish with her.

Granger bit her lip and tore her gaze from the books to bravely meet his eyes. With a defiant little tilt to her chin, she asked, "What about my parents?"

"What about them?" Tom shrugged in the truly careless manner of one who honestly had no feelings on the subject.

"I can't sit out here reading while my parents are stuck in that closet!" she exclaimed.

Tom outwardly frowned, but inwardly he was congratulating himself on having predicted her reactions so well.

"If you exceed my expectations then I might consider allowing them to join you in the bedroom, although Salazar only knows how you'll manage the sleeping arrangements with one bed." Undoubtedly they would not only manage sharing one bed but would actually welcome it, given their current living conditions. However, his apparent obliviousness to their situation made Granger visibly bite her tongue to keep from speaking, which is exactly the amusing reaction Tom had been hoping for. "However, if it turns out that your intelligence is not up to my standards, there will be no need for you to worry about them anymore."

Her eyes lit up with not a little anger and a determination to prove how wrong he was to doubt her, but she smartly kept her comments to herself. It seemed she had learned by now that her words would mean nothing to him, but he would keep his word if her actions pleased him.

Tom watched her with an impassive mask fixed firmly on his face as she watched him weave his wand in a complex pattern by the door. Now that she was free from the closet, he had doubled the wards, just in case. Not that he thought she truly had a chance of escaping, since even if she managed to get out of the building she would still be out in the middle of nowhere without a wand. He just would prefer that she not die trying before his plans had come to fruition.

Finally, when he was done, he stepped through the door and, without bothering to look back at her, said, "Until later, Mudblood."

* * *

The Horcrux was lounging across their grandfather's sarcophagus when Tom appeared in the graveyard the second time. He looked up unhurriedly, as if he couldn't be bothered with Tom's appearance, and Tom decided not to call him out on the blatant untruth of it. If acting disinterested made the Horcrux feel more in control of the situation, then that could only work in Tom's favor.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," declared the Horcrux.

Tom kept his face neutral. "I don't know why you're complaining. It's only been a day."

The Horcrux leaned back on his elbows and let his long legs sprawl out across the stone, one of his feet dangling over the edge and kicking at their grandfather's name. He scowled. "Well, I guess a day is nothing to  _you_ , since you have a body."

Tom only controlled his expression through sheer force of will. It was the best reply he could have hoped for—the information contained in it, that is, not the reply itself. Clearly the Horcrux did not have access to his mind or to any real sense of Tom's physical surroundings, or else he would have known that it had been a week since Tom's last visit. Tom had assumed that the Horcrux's sense of time was just as nonexistent as his had been while inside the diary, or probably even worse since he hadn't been able to directly communicate with the outside world like Tom had, but it was fantastic to have it confirmed.

His mind was his own, and that was the most important thing.

Finally allowing a slight smile to pass over his features, Tom said, "I have a present for you, but I want something from you."

"It isn't much of a gift then, is it?" asked the Horcrux. "It hardly stems from detached and disinterested generosity."

"Name one time we have done something out of generosity of any kind."

The Horcrux laughed, and Tom was struck anew with two completely relevant realizations: First, it was incredibly strange to watch someone who was as close to identical to you as it was possible to be. Even identical twins had enough differences that most people who knew them for more than a couple of days could tell them apart! Smaller eyes, facial symmetry that was slightly off, freckles in different patterns… the Horcrux and he had none of those minor differences. Second, he was truly an intimidating individual. Even his laughter was off-putting because of the hints of instability and coldness behind it.

"Fair point," replied the Horcrux as he slipped gracefully off the sarcophagus. "What's the present, and what do you want?"

Tom raised his eyebrows just the barest amount. "I want to know everything you know about the other Horcruxes. And I promise you'll love it; trust me."

His other self took in an unneeded breath and let it out harshly, his nostrils flaring. "I don't know much more than you do. I was created less than a year later."

"I don't mean the mechanics or properties of it," answered Tom. "I mean what they are and where they're hidden. Did you still plan to use objects from the Founders? Were you able to find any objects that fit the bill?"

"I had determined that Ravenclaw's diadem was a real object, just before I was made. I was close to tracking it down, I think. Did you know that the Gray Lady is Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter? Sorry, of course you didn't…." he answered his own question a second later. After an awkward pause, he added, "In any event, I think she's the key to finding the diadem."

"You hadn't pinned down any other possibilities?"

The Horcrux narrowed his eyes as if he were trying to decide whether that was an accusation. "Not anything more concrete than what you already know."

"I see…. And had you given any more thought to where they would be hidden?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to strike a balance between showing conversations and avoiding giving massive info dumps about things we already know that would probably be boring to read about in any detail (e.g. what the Horcruxes are). Please let me know what you think about that or about anything else in the story, if you have a few seconds.


	9. Standby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom spends a Saturday on standby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All exams, papers, and holidays are officially finished for me, and I have a bit of a break now so for a while I should be able to focus on writing this and my other story, The Other Side. I hope you all had a good holiday season and that the wait wasn't too long for this chapter!

The last official meeting before they carried out the plot at Gringotts was a tense affair for everybody involved. Lestrange clearly had a reason to be nervous, as he was the one really risking his neck, but in reality his nerves were more because of his intense fear of displeasing Tom than any worry for himself. Tom attributed Abraxas's nerves to worry over whether the goblins would keep their end of the deal, which was never a sure bet. Lucius was right to be worried, since his neck was on the line on two separate fronts, the goblins and the Polyjuice Potion.

No doubt Mulciber, who didn't actually have any personal stake in this operation, was so jumpy just because it was obvious that Tom himself was operating with a hair trigger.

Tom turned his head abruptly to meet Mulciber's frightened eyes, and the man flinched and was unable to hold his stare for more than a few seconds before he dropped his gaze to his lap.

"But you must feel left out of these proceedings, Mulciber, since you've nothing to contribute," said Tom in his own imitation of the low, sibulant voice his other self had used in Abraxas's memory. "Why don't you tell us if you have anything useful to add?"

Tom was half hoping that Mulciber wouldn't have anything interesting to say, because he was itching to torture something. This usually turned out to be the case, because Mulciber's somewhat low administrative position at Saint Mungo's (after having lost his position in the Ministry when his son was caught as a Death Eater) didn't afford him much access to information that Tom would find useful. This time, however, the man perked up at the opportunity, and Tom suspected that he wouldn't be able to torture him after all.

"My Lord, paperwork came across my desk only this afternoon indicating that Molly Weasley is a serious case for one of the Mind Healers."

It took Tom several seconds to piece together why exactly he should care about the state of this Molly Weasley's mind, but then he determined that she must be the mother of the Weasley brats he'd disposed of. Little Ginny had only ever referred to her mother as "Mum," but why else would Mulciber bring it up? The whole thing brought a cruel smirk to his lips as he recalled thinking in the Chamber that he would never spare another thought for little Ginny after she was out of his sight. It seemed he had proven himself correct, at least until someone else brought her up.

His followers had all sat back further in their seats at the twist of lips, as if to get as far away from him as possible, which only made Tom's smirk deepen.

"The Healer is petitioning the hospital to be allowed to treat her free of charge for the indefinite future," Mulciber rushed on, eager to tell all of his news before Tom could decide how to react. "The hospital takes on such charity cases in serious circumstances. The Healer's professional opinion is that Mrs. Weasley might present a danger to herself or others without proper treatment, but the Weasleys have exhausted their ability to pay."

Lucius couldn't suppress a snicker. "Now that you mention it, I  _had_  heard from my friends in the DMLE that Weasley returned from bereavement leave as soon as the period of paid leave expired, even though Bones told him that he was free to take as much additional time as he needed. No doubt he couldn't take any unpaid time off without his remaining children starving to death."

His colleagues joined in on his laughter.

"It's very amusing news," Tom broke in, and all of them immediately quieted down as if they had never been laughing at all, "but what use is it to me?"

It was rather a rhetorical question only intended to make them refocus on what was important. In fact, Tom's mind had begun spinning with possibilities as soon as he'd heard the news.

However, Lucius apparently took it as a genuine inquiry, because he, always eager to make life harder for Arthur Weasley, immediately said, "My Lord, if I may, I suggest that we could achieve several objectives at once here. If everyone were to think that you are actively targeting the Weasleys…"

Tom had been thinking the same thing. A malicious smile curved over the handsome lines of his face. "Yes, that would certainly distract Dumbledore and send Potter into a tailspin. And it seems that such a threat might send Molly Weasley into a complete mental breakdown, if she isn't there yet."

"I will find out the details of her condition," added Mulciber. "I should be able to get my hands on all of the Healer's records on Monday."

Tom nodded. "Good. Lucius, you will give your house-elf  _very clear_  instructions about what to tell—and  _not_  tell—Potter."

* * *

The next day, Saturday, was absolute hell for Tom. Yesterday he'd been able to distract himself with the final preparations for today, but now all that was left was the waiting. He absolutely despised waiting for other people to carry out his plans, both because he hated waiting itself and because he hated not being in control.

And he couldn't distract himself by waiting around. Tom's mind refused to focus on anything besides what the Horcrux had told him about the hiding places. Places that represent something important about his past, he'd said. Places that represent something important about his place in the magical world.

Tom leaned back into his thick down pillows and closed his eyes to better recall the Horcrux's exact words about its own creation.

"What better place to create me than here, on our father's grave? There's something incredibly poetic about it all," he'd said, eyes gleaming with pride and more madness than even Tom was entirely comfortable seeing. "You were created in the same place where your soul was split to make your creation possible, although it wasn't planned that way for you, of course. I decided to carry it on after you were created."

Tom had arranged his expression into one of interest. "And since you were going to use our father's death to create the next Horcrux, you had to do it here. Why here, though, and not up at the house?"

The Horcrux grinned. "It was also about what this place  _means_ …. Hogwarts was our first home in the magical world, the place where we began our education, and the place where we made our first kill. The other locations have to be just as significant. I might have killed our father up at the house, but the house itself has no significance. This village is what's important: the house, this graveyard, the hovel where our mother grew up. This is the final resting place of the last Tom Riddle, the place where his legacy ends…. And I just liked dancing on his grave."

Tom opened his eyes and stared up at the canopy, having been able to reach no conclusion other than the one he'd already made.

It was all madness. Horcruxes were meant to be hidden—protected!—where nobody could find them!

Of course Tom understood the need for grand gestures—Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes could be nothing short of exceptional, just like he was—but that's why he had chosen the Founders' artifacts as his remaining containers. The diary had a purpose, and furthermore it represented his mind and thoughts. The ring was a representation of his heritage, his ancient, pure bloodline dating back to Salazar himself. The remaining four were grand symbols of the wizarding world, representations of Tom's rightful place and his eventual dominion over magical society.

But hiding Horcruxes in places intrinsically connected to himself was just sheer stupidity!

It was a good thing he came along when he did, or else surely his other self would have been defeated eventually because of his utter madness. Tom was considering now whether it was even worth it to bring the man back, if he was that insane. He would definitely have to take things even more carefully than he'd been planning to before. Perhaps if he could just use the Horcruxes' knowledge instead… but no, he would have to deal with his other self somehow, since his continued existence meant that his other self could never be disposed of….

First he needed to find the rest of the Horcruxes. His own placement was irrelevant because he'd had a purpose the later Horcruxes hadn't, so the ring's placement in the Gaunt shack and the cup's placement in Gringotts were the only clues he had. Little Hangleton was significant because it was everything about his heritage, the good and the bad, all rolled into one otherwise insignificant speck on the map. There were any number of things about Gringotts that might have seemed important to his other self, but he couldn't guess which one or more of them had actually been important in Voldemort's insane mind.

The Horcrux in the ring hadn't known much about it, as he had only had the beginnings of plans when he was created. Tom would have to wait until he had the cup in order to know more.

Tom hated waiting!

He rolled off his bed and crossed the room to the unobtrusive door nearly hidden in the wall paneling. It led to a relatively large room, though much smaller than his bedroom, that had originally been intended as a dressing room when his suite had been built anticipating a royal visit, before the Statute of Secrecy had passed. There was enough room for a large bed and plenty of toys.

His Muggle was huddled on the floor, which was amusing for Tom. He had an exceptionally comfortable bed, but apparently he refused to go anywhere near it unless Tom forced him to.

"Up," he ordered.

The Muggle flinched and pressed his naked, trembling body further into his corner, but there was still fire in his eyes when Tom forced him up. That was good; Tom smiled, showing the boy his white teeth.

"You know, darling, you seem unhappy," Tom said, his voice a smooth mixture of intimacy and mockery. His prick stirred with interest at the flash of disgust and anger in the Muggle's eyes. "Perhaps I ought to have taken your wishes into consideration. I'll tell you what: You can choose which spells I use today."

The Muggle finally turned his eyes upwards to stare at Tom with the horror of one who had comprehended that he was looking at a monster. Tom smiled back.

"Don't be shy about telling me what you like best. The Cruciatus Curse? The Blood Boiling Curse?" He leaned in so that his lips brushed against the Muggle's ear and his breath ruffled the curly hair. "How about my curse, do you like that one?"

The boy slammed himself sideways then, and Tom registered the feel of soft hair against his skin just before the pain. He stumbled backwards, his hand automatically coming up to cradle his nose, and watched the Muggle scramble for the door.

He couldn't get out, of course, with the locking spells on the door. Still, Tom let his magic lash out violently. The boy's cry of surprise and pain was cut off abruptly, his breath knocked out of his lungs as he was slammed up against the wood. Tom half considered either letting the magic crush him against the solid oak or allowing him to crumple into a heap on the floor, but he settled for a happy medium. As Tom straightened himself out and took an unsteady step towards the Muggle, the boy kicked his feet wildly in midair as he searched for purchase against the smooth door, and he clutched desperately at his throat as if he could somehow release the collar of magic that was supporting his entire body.

"You filthy Muggle," hissed Tom, his voice an unpleasant mixture between English and Parseltongue, "you dare to strike  _me_?"

His prisoner's eyes were wide open and rolling frantically in panic as he failed to draw breath. Tom watched in satisfaction as his nails tore gashes in his own throat in his attempts to free himself. Finally, he turned wild, pleading eyes to Tom's.

Tom brought up an elegant hand to collect the trickle of blood that had leaked out of his tender nose. He examined the blood with glowing eyes, then turned his fingers for the boy's inspection. "You expect me to help you now, after you have drawn my blood?  _My_  blood?"

The tears that streamed down the Muggle's face did nothing to persuade his captor, but Tom was interested in something else. He stepped closer, trailing his wand down the side of his prisoner's face and across his jawline.

"Will you submit to me willingly, if I let you live? Will you submit to whatever I want, no matter what it is?"

The Muggle hesitated for the barest second, but then he nodded. His face was beginning to turn a horrendous shade of burgundy by then, so Tom had expected that response. The real test would come when he was actually faced with Tom's demands when his life wasn't about to be snuffed out. The thought made Tom smile in anticipation.

He dropped the boy with a mere thought, allowing him to fall to the ground in a heap. He wheezed and gasped, but Tom was uninterested in his struggles. He undid the fastenings of his trousers in one smooth movement and moved back to the center of the small space so that the boy would have to come to him.

"Prove yourself, Muggle," demanded Tom, with a lewd gesture towards his exposed privates. There was no need to add that he meant now, as the tone of his voice brooked no opposition. Indeed, the Muggle half shuffled and half crawled towards him even as he continued to gasp for breath, and with only the briefest grimace of disgust he brought his mouth to Tom's member.

Tom hadn't ever allowed him to do this before, as he hadn't trusted that the boy wasn't stupid enough to bite at the first opportunity. Now he judged that a true brush with death would have tamed that spark of defiance and idiocy just enough to make this safe, at least for the rest of the day.

As the Muggle gagged and choked around him, Tom let his head fall back and thought about everything else he wanted to do. Images of blood and sweat and cum danced through his mind, and he wondered how far his little pet's resolve would let him push.

In any event, he would be well and truly distracted from all the waiting.

Abruptly, he used his long fingers twisted in the Muggle's hair to pull him off his cock and drag him upwards until he was standing awkwardly before Tom, wincing in pain. Tom shoved him face down onto the bed, and before the Muggle could react, he'd hit him with a Cruciatus Curse. The writhing and screaming did a bit to dissipate Tom's anger and boredom, but not a lot.

He ended the curse just as suddenly as he'd started it, leaving his toy crying and shaking on the bed.

"I suggest that you stay still," Tom told him as he dragged the tip of his wand down the boy's flank and across his trembling buttocks, "because I'm not going to stop if you move. It'll just make it worse."

He gave the shaking boy a moment to process that, not out of kindness but rather to allow him to imagine the worst. Then he brought his wand up to the soft skin of the boy's side and silently cast a cutting charm.

* * *

It was taking too long. The hot shower that was usually a relief to him hadn't done any good at all. Well, except for actually cleaning him, which it did quite well, as evidenced by all of the blood that had swirled around the marble and down the drain. Torturing his Muggle had been fun for a while, but nothing could fix the fact that Malfoy and Lestrange should have been back hours ago.

He was just stepping out of the shower when Abraxas burst into his bedroom, a clearly panicked Lucius right on his heels. Tom only had to take one look at them through the open bathroom door before he had brought them to their knees with the sheer force of his rage.

"What happened?"

"Please, My Lo—" began Lucius, but a glare from Tom, even completely nude and dripping as he was, stopped his plea short.

His father, who actually had the answers, quickly filled the silence. "My Lord, the Aurors… Lestrange…"

He seemed unable to articulate his thoughts into anymore coherence than that, but Tom could well fill in the blanks. Both Malfoys cried out as his fury washed painfully over them.

"How?" he hissed.

"The—the potion, My Lord!" gasped Abraxas. "It had to be that! I was speaking to the goblin when I heard the commotion, and when I looked back Lestrange was himself again. I've spent the rest of the day at the Ministry, but I managed to convince them that Lestrange had blackmailed me and I had been planning to ask for their help as soon as my family was safe."

A deadly calm settled over Tom's mind, and his followers both cried out with relief as his magic uncurled itself from their bodies. He sucked in a deep breath full of hot steam and took his time putting on a thick robe he Summoned from his wardrobe. By the time he had completed the task, he had settled his thoughts enough to deal intelligently with the situation.

Tom turned steely gaze on the elder Malfoy. "So I made a mistake with the potion?"

Abraxas bowed his head. "No, My Lord, I'm sure that you could never have made a mistake. I suppose that I must admit, to my shame, that it was my grandson's error."

Lucius let out a low moan of distress, and Tom turned cold eyes and an even colder smile on him. "It seems, Lucius, that you never shared the details of our arrangement with your father."

"Master, I beg you! Please, please take me instead! I will take his punishment on top of my own!" he pleaded, bowing so low that his forehead touched the damp floor and his hair fell from its normally neat tie and spread out around him.

Tom watched impassively as Lucius prostrated himself and his father seemed to realize that the situation was more serious than he had originally considered. Tom supposed that Abraxas had known that blaming Draco would earn the boy a punishment—would earn all of them a punishment—but he had thought it would be manageable. Indeed, it was more than clear now that he had utterly underestimated Tom in more ways than one.

"What was it that I said when I agreed to take Draco on, Lucius?" asked Tom coolly. "Ah, yes, I remember! That I would hold you both fully and equally responsible and force you each to watch as I torture the other."

Lucius moaned again, and Abraxas stared between them in growing terror. If Tom hadn't been so focused on his goal, he undoubtedly would have taken a full measure of sadistic pleasure in watching the eldest Malfoy realize his error.

A snap of his fingers produced a house-elf. "Bring Draco to me."

The order had the expected result on both of the Malfoys, but Tom ignored their begging as he brushed past them and, finally, into the bedroom. His temper was hanging on a thread, and if he allowed himself to react then he would obliterate Abraxas Malfoy on the spot.

When Draco appeared in the doorway, he looked around the room in shock and not a little fear. Tom was sure they made quite a sight, him in a dressing robe with the elder Malfoys practically licking the floor at his feet. He held out his hand, and Draco warily but readily came to him, allowing Tom to wrap his wand arm around his shoulders with such trust that surely his father and grandfather would have been horrified by it even under the best of circumstances. Tom allowed his wand to hang casually down across Draco's chest, where it would surely cause him some harm if Tom lost his temper and his magic sparked. This was not lost on either of the elder Malfoys, though Draco himself seemed not to think anything of it.

"It seems that our potion failed," he told the boy, a hard edge to his voice that didn't quite allow it to be as casual as he'd hoped. "Your grandfather has been quick to blame you for the mistake."

Draco's jaw dropped open. " _What_? No!"

Tom smirked at Lucius and Abraxas from over Draco's head. "No? So you're saying it was my mistake, then?"

"No!" cried Draco. "I'm saying that there was no mistake! It was perfect! You  _know_  that!"

"Really?" he asked coldly. "Tell me, Draco, if the potion was perfect, then why was Lestrange exposed in the middle of the Gringotts lobby, before the Polyjuice ought to have worn off?"

Draco's mouth worked for a few moments before he found his voice. "It—it must have been… tampered with."

He was so upset that he had forgotten to add his customary "My Lord" to his declarations, but Tom didn't mind. The boy had reacted exactly as he'd hoped, and his father and grandfather had, in turn, reacted to Draco's words exactly as he'd anticipated. Lucius appeared caught between hope and horror, and Abraxas's carefully constructed mental walls shifted in his fear and regret. The shift was just the minutest amount, but it was enough for Tom to attack the weak point and work his mental fingers into the resulting crack.

He couldn't make out Malfoy's exact thoughts, not unless he had direct access and was willing to destroy the man's mind, but he had advanced enough to be able to make out the generalities.

Tom bit back a curse and subtly pointed the tip of his wand away from Draco's chest, just in case.

"Indeed, that is what I think as well," he finally said, turning his flashing eyes to Abraxas. "The real question is who would have dared to tamper with it."

Abraxas's face remained completely impassive, which was probably more of a giveaway than if he'd tried to act offended at the accusation. Honestly, Tom had to wonder sometimes about peoples' inability to lie believably. He'd learned very quickly as a child that there was a fine balance between acting unworried and acting offended, and too much on either side would advertise guilt. With the exception of a few panicked, fearful reactions that he hadn't yet learned to control as a child (His first meeting with Dumbledore came immediately to mind, which did not improve his mood at all.), he had always carefully tailored his reactions to what people expected, to great effect.

On the other hand, Lucius was staring at his father with his mouth agape, utterly unable to control his reaction.

"Father…" he began, then trailed off, his voice a rather tragic mixture of disbelief and anger.

Tom felt Draco shake his head in denial from where the boy was resting against his side, and he looked down in time to meet wide gray eyes. "No, Grandfather wouldn't… He wouldn't!"

"Oh, but he would. He thinks that loyalty to my other self means that he must thwart my plans, and by tampering with the potion he could simultaneously ruin my chances of retrieving what I need from the Lestrange vault and get rid of someone more loyal to me than to my other self."

Most of it had been an educated guess, but he could tell by the spark of steely defiance in Abraxas's eyes that he was right on the money. They glared at each other with pure hatred until Lucius broke in, his voice shattered.

"No… But why would you—" He cut himself off with a nervous glance in Tom's direction, then apparently decided that asking his question was worth the risk of drawing his master's ire. "Why would you risk Draco? My son…" He was on his feet suddenly, glaring down at his father with as much fury as Tom had ever seen him direct towards anyone. "He's  _my son_! How dare you use him in your mad scheme! How dare you!"

Abraxas looked contrite. "Lucius… I did not know. I thought that we would all be punished but nothing more than we could endure, than what we have endured before—"

"DRACO HAS NEVER ENDURED IT!" roared Lucius, cutting off wherever Abraxas had been heading with his explanation.

His father pinned him with a glare that had undoubtedly been used to cow his son since infancy. "You are the one who offered your son to Tom Riddle, not me. You are the one who agreed to the terms, not me."

"You're the one who sabotaged his work!" retorted Lucius. "The issue of punishment would not even be on the table if you hadn't done that! The scale of punishment is irrelevant—I can't believe that you willingly set him up for  _any_  punishment!"

Abraxas pursed his lips into a harsh line, the so familiar pure-blood hauteur coming over his face. "He will have to endure torture sooner or later. If he had to suffer sooner—if we all had to suffer—in order to remain loyal to our lord, I judged it well worth the price."

Tom had heard more than enough to learn all he wanted to know. Abraxas, unaware of the terrible scope of the threat Tom had put over Lucius and Draco's heads when he had accepted the boy's help, had acted to sabotage him out of loyalty to his other self. And he had acted alone, no doubt because he knew that his son would never have agreed to go through with anything that would have put his own son directly in harm's way. Whether Lucius would have agreed to sabotage him if Draco hadn't been in the picture, Tom didn't know.

As he felt Draco tremble against his side, he judged that it was irrelevant at this point—Draco was his now, and it was far too late for his father to do anything to change that.

"Did you really think I would accept that our work was faulty? That I wouldn't figure it out?" he asked somewhat incredulously. "Apparently you are so blinded by the insanity of Lord Voldemort that you have underestimated my intelligence. I would kill you for that insult even if I weren't going to kill you for your betrayal."

Draco gasped and wrenched himself from underneath Tom's arm, going instead to his father's embrace. It was the most physical affection Tom had ever seen the littlest Malfoy willingly display; apparently the situation was enough to override his teenage independence. Lucius closed his eyes tightly for a few long moments before he turned a pleading gaze on Tom.

"Please, My Lord, if you would… Please spare my son from having to see his grandfather…" He trailed off with a choked sound, apparently unable to finish the sentence aloud, no matter what his father had done or how angry he was about it.

He would normally be furious at any request coming from someone with so little bargaining power in the situation, but in this case Tom had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that murdering Abraxas Malfoy in front of his grandson would probably damage the relationship he was building with the boy. Fortunately he wasn't planning on murdering Abraxas just yet anyway, so he was spared having to balance those varying concerns.

"Tell me, Lucius, do you need your father's approval to maintain your various interests, so long as he lives?"

Lucius stared at him in confusion for long enough that Tom had to say his name sharply. Then he seemed to snap out of his stupor. He explained, "Er, no, My Lord. He turned over most of the day-to-day operations to me years ago. His approval is only needed for major decisions."

"Fantastic," said Tom, although the tone of his voice didn't sound excited at all. He spoke to Lucius as if Abraxas wasn't even in the room. "Your father will be imprisoned here until further notice. If he wants so badly to help Lord Voldemort, then he will be glad to know that his body and soul will be donated to that cause when the time is right. In the meantime, he is already dead to you and your family. Am I understood?"

Lucius stroked his hand through his son's hair, pulling Draco further against him. He let out a shaky breath and determinedly refused to look down at his father.

"Yes, My Lord."

It was the work of a moment to bind Abraxas and toss him into the room with Tom's pet Muggle. Tom smirked a bit at how furious the man would be about that, but he'd brought his expression under control by the time he'd turned back around to face Lucius and Draco.

"Malfoy, find out everything you can about what your father has said to the Ministry, and what has happened to Lestrange. Draco, I want your report about what he did to the Polyjuice Potion by the end of the week. And someone tell Mulciber that I want answers on Monday and not a day later, or he'll find himself hogtied with Abraxas."

He spun away and opened his wardrobe. The Malfoys recognized the clear dismissal for what it was and quickly left him alone. Tom finally let out the breath he'd seemed to be holding in along with his rage, but he quickly reined it all back in as well as he could. There was absolutely no room for impulsivity, especially not now that he was short one Horcrux and two followers. He dressed quickly, intent on going to the library to continue working towards figuring out where else Voldemort would have put Horcruxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was worth the wait. I appreciate all of the comments, kudos, and bookmarks more than I can say.


	10. The Dementor's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul-sucking comes in many forms.

Granger did an awful job of hiding her dismay. She was all wringing hands and worried eyes, and when Tom entered the little cabin she spoke up immediately.

"The book is wrong; I only recorded what it said."

Tom paused for a fraction of a second. It was the first time she had ever addressed him willingly, without him first having to threaten her in some way to gain her cooperation. Then his eyes traveled curiously past his frazzled archivist and to the table behind her. She had reorganized his deliberately haphazard stacks, somewhat surprisingly in more or less the same way he would have done it himself had he not been tricking her into believing he had no idea what they were about. He could tell even from across the room which category of books she'd been working on.

"You ca—" began Granger, then cut herself off abruptly before she said that he couldn't do something. After a moment's hesitation, she continued, "You'll read the books yourself before assuming that I did a poor job, won't you? It isn't my fault if the authors are wrong."

He had pondered how Granger would react to her views—rather, the Hogwarts curriculum—being challenged, but this was more than even he had anticipated. Tom had always been skeptical of what he was told and had never accepted his textbooks and professors at their words. He had always considered it the single positive attribute he'd brought with him from the Muggle orphanage, because he had quickly learned that children who had been raised in the wizarding world tended to accept conventional wisdom and lists of magical rules at face value without question.

Tom had expected Granger to be more like him, since she had been raised by Muggles. He had certainly not expected such blind faith in authority.

The only change in his expression was a flicker that passed through his eyes so quickly that Granger was left wondering if she'd seen it at all. He reached out to smoothly pluck her notes from midair where he'd Summoned them and made a show of scanning the rows of her small, neat handwriting, then he turned to her with a perfectly arched brow.

"What makes you think the author is incorrect?"

She spluttered for a moment, and when she finally spoke her already-annoying voice rose higher with each word. "The first exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration clearly states —"

"I asked for your thoughts, not for you to regurgitate Gamp's Law at me," he cut her off, quite enjoying the way she gaped at him in astonishment and not a little anger.

"What else can I do except state the facts?" she asked, and Tom was genuinely disappointed in her unimaginativeness. "If it were possible to conjure food from thin air, then someone would have done it and it wouldn't be one of the exceptions!"

Tom allowed an amused smile to flit across his face. "Are the exceptions laws describing the limits of magic itself, or are they statements describing the limits of wizards' minds?"

Granger gaped at him quite unattractively. "They're laws about the limits of magic, of course! You can't honestly believe that if a wizard were simply more intelligent he could create food from nothing!"

"Most transfigurations are accomplished by pure magic guided by sheer force of will. The average wizard doesn't seriously consider the molecular properties of wood versus metal when he transfigures a match into a needle, as the author suggests," he began with a shrug. "That is why most transfigurations are rarely as good as the real thing and often can't stand up for very long to any real attempt to use the objects. But if one _did_ know the exact molecular properties and concentrated on transfiguring the match on a molecular level instead of just imagining the superficial idea of a needle…"

He trailed off with a challenging look in her direction, while she stared at him in a mixture of astonishment and a clear determination to prove her point.

"No," she insisted rather forcefully. "If it were that simple, then food wouldn't be considered the first principle exception to Gamp's Law. This—this _book_ "—she said the word as if it caused her great pain to grant the text such a label—"would be required reading, if it were true. It would be a revolutionary breakthrough!"

Tom laughed grimly. "There probably isn't even one wizard in a thousand who could define the term 'molecule,' much less who has any idea about the different chemical structures of things. The fact that there hasn't been a wizard with both the scientific knowledge and magical capability to actually accomplish it doesn't mean it can't be done."

"Then you're just arguing hypotheticals! You don't seriously claim to have done it yourself!"

He shrugged one shoulder lazily. "I'll get around to experimenting with food eventually, when I have the time. Taking over the world is a full-time job, you know, and hardly leaves time for studying anything else." He also rather suspected that his few years of scientific education, which had been quite lacking even compared to his more fortunate Muggle contemporaries, was woefully outdated these fifty years later. "But I've no reason to think the exception is actually a limitation of magic itself, since I have already broken the fourth exception."

"You can't have!" she exclaimed. "I tried duplicating money myself and—"

Tom's sharp eyes cut to her at that, and she immediately stopped talking.

"You are calling me a liar because _your_ meager attempts failed?" he demanded, caught somewhere between anger and amusement.

She stared at him with wide brown eyes, clearly having realized only at that moment how much she had been pushing him, how much freedom he had been allowing her to challenge him before she'd crossed that line. Tom shook off the remnants of his anger with a deep breath and a flex of his fingers so that he might more clearly feel the Horcrux's energy mingling with his own. Then he schooled his face back into handsome impassivity and stared at her coolly.

"I suggest, Mudblood, that you attempt to apply your not inconsiderable mind to having a bit more imagination. I've no use for someone who is incapable of thinking for herself."

Indeed, if there were but one good thing Tom could say about Draco, it would be that he was an imaginative little prat. Sometimes too imaginative, truth be told, but Tom was convinced that by the time the boy was old enough to be of any real use he would have managed to mold his little Malfoy mind into something worthwhile. He had left Granger standing there with an impossibly hurt look on her Mudblood face only to be met with Draco's eager face almost as soon as he'd set foot back in the manor.

"My Lord, I think I figured it out!" he exclaimed from the top of the grand staircase as Tom was walking across the entrance hall from the front drawing room. He took the steps down two at a time, triumphantly holding aloft a bundle of parchment almost as thick as his own forearm.

Tom stood half ready to cast a Levitation Charm should the boy fall headlong down the marble steps. As soon as Draco was close enough that Tom could be heard without yelling across the entrance hall, he asked, "Did you have a house-elf waiting to inform you as soon as I returned?"

"What?" replied Draco, clearly startled at having his train of thought interrupted. Then, "Yes, of course, but look!"

There were suddenly several long pieces of parchment floating open in front of his face, and Draco stood beside him pointing at the last line of a series of complicated equations and chattering away. Tom thought that perhaps it was time to redraw the line for the acceptable level of familiarity for Draco to have with him. On the other hand, Malfoy was such a sensitive, spoiled little git that he doubted he'd get anywhere near the level of productivity out of the boy were he to be harsh and cold towards him.

"This is almost correct," Tom finally said, forestalling Draco's longwinded explanation. "You're right that he added additional boomslang skin after we had left the potion to simmer after the first step of the second part of the brewing cycle, but you've miscalculated the amount."

Draco stared at him. "How did you check my work so quic—You already knew the answer!"

Tom flicked his fingers vaguely in Draco's direction to silence him. "Of course I did. Look here where you've assigned a value of nine to the boomslang skin. It should really be somewhere around seven point three, but I suspect that you were unable to find the correct value listed anywhere and tried to derive it yourself using some known value." He mentally reversed the calculation Draco would have used to derive the value, and a few seconds later corrected himself, "From the value of Ashwinder skin. Of course, with your limited knowledge, you could not properly account for all of the differences between the two."

"You aren't mad that it's not correct?" ventured Draco.

"Actually, I did not expect you to get this far. I had anticipated that you would stop after you determined that the culprit was boomslang skin and pinned down the timing."

It occurred to Tom after he'd stopped speaking that perhaps Draco would desire some more explicit praise than that, perhaps something more along the lines of being told that he had done very well and gotten surprisingly close to the correct answer for someone who hadn't even begun the relevant classes at Hogwarts yet. But Draco had clearly read that implication into what he'd already said, because he was smiling widely. Tom reached out a tendril of magic to scan Draco's thoughts and quickly learned that his young follower had been teaching himself Ancient Runes and Arithmancy since their discussion in the library all those weeks ago, so eager was he to impress Tom.

"Can I ask you something, My Lord?"

Tom was amused that Draco would think to ask permission now after he'd taken so many liberties earlier, but he waved him on without commenting on it.

Draco carefully rolled up his parchments, eyeing his work much more closely than necessary and avoiding looking at Tom. "Why did you assign me this task if you were going to do it yourself anyway?"

"I wanted to see if you could do it." The answer really was that simple. He added, "But I hardly went through the whole process myself. I simply looked in your grandfather's mind for the answer."

In fact, he had invaded Abraxas's mind for more information than that, and _that_ process had been quite painful for Malfoy. He had cooperated somewhat after Tom had assured him that his mental wellbeing wasn't at all necessary for what Tom had planned for him, of course.

Draco had already bowed his head low and turned to go back up the stairs when Tom called him back.

"As it happens, I did do the calculations for the precise amounts of boomslang skin myself." He wasn't yet a good enough Legilimens to have ferreted out such precise information, even when he'd had direct eye contact and no concerns about breaking Malfoy's mind. "You can find them on my customary table in the library. Top row of parchment, second stack from the right. Do replace my original back where you find it."

It was both a reward and another test. From the way Malfoy's eyes lit up and he smiled brilliantly at Tom before rushing back down the stairs towards the library, Tom knew that the boy really was thrilled at the opportunity. He could appreciate that thirst for knowledge. And the next time he was in the library, he would know whether Malfoy had the gall to look at his other papers.

* * *

The second meeting after the failed attempt on Gringotts wasn't any less terrifying for Lucius and Mulciber than the first had been. Tom knew that he was significantly less likely now that he'd had another week to calm down to hold Mulciber under the Cruciatus Curse for five minutes straight merely because his information was boring, or to blow up Lucius's glass while he was holding it because he looked too much like his father when he tilted his head a certain way, but neither Mulciber nor Malfoy knew that.

They were still holding meetings in Abraxas's study, except now it was _Tom's_ study. Lucius had been visibly put out at that—no doubt he'd been waiting literally years to move into the room—but Tom had decided quite abruptly that he was no longer a schoolboy to be skulking about in the library. He was Lord Voldemort, more or less, and if he wanted the master's study he would take it.

"Lestrange is extremely lucky at your timing, My Lord," Lucius was saying. "If he'd been caught now instead of last week, he'd almost certainly have been Kissed."

Tom could not but agree. He looked up from the _Daily Prophet_ he'd spread across Abraxas's desk, although he could still see the moving photograph and the headline screaming up at him as he looked at his remaining followers—ESCAPE FROM AZAKABAN!

"Indeed, this Fudge seems like he wouldn't be capable of reacting within reason if he actually tried."

Lucius nodded once in acknowledge. "Yes, My Lord, he is little more than a fool. He is understandably eager for any news that could distract the public from the Ministry's catastrophic failure here, and he is sure that publicly disposing of one recently captured Death Eater would make up in some way for them having lost another one. If the Head of the Department were anyone less formidable and popular than Bones, Fudge would likely have had Lestrange Kissed in the middle of the Ministry atrium today, notwithstanding the fact that he's already been legally sentenced to Azkaban."

"The apprentice Healer I have under the Imperius Curse told me that Molly Weasley had an emergency appointment this morning," added Mulciber. "She is convinced that the information Malfoy's house-elf passed on about you going after her remaining children is directly related to Black's escape. She insists that her children will not be allowed to go back to Hogwarts this year, and she nearly took Arthur's head off when he intervened in the argument that caused between her and one of her sons. Apparently she has one of those magical clocks that shows you were where family members are instead of telling time, and she's taken to carting it around with her everywhere, even out in public."

Lucius snorted. "I wonder if she would feel any more secure if she knew that there will be Dementors stationed at the school. I had no choice but to agree with Fudge or he undoubtedly would have done everything in his power to replace me as head governor with someone more willing, but I admit that I am considering keeping Draco out of Hogwarts."

"Draco will be going to Hogwarts," stated Tom.

His tone was mild, but his eyes were hard, and Lucius could clearly see that arguing would not do any good. He visibly swallowed and lowered his eyes in acceptance.

"Yes, My Lord."

Feeling no need to acknowledge the subject further, Tom began on the various questions he had regarding Black. "From what you two know of him, what is Black likely to do? I would like to intercept him as soon as possible so that I can either bring him into the fold or, if his mind proves unsalvageable, put him down before he becomes even more of a liability."

Malfoy and Mulciber looked at each other uncomfortably. Tom was getting quite impatient with their silent conversation by the time they seemed to reach an agreement and Mulciber turned back towards him to speak.

"My Lord, I beg you will forgive us, but we truly have no information about Black. As far as we know, you… _He…_ is the only person who ever knew who his spy in the Order was."

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Spy?"

Despite having tried to pass the buck to Mulciber, Lucius was unable to keep his mouth shut. He rolled his eyes in exasperation at his fellow's inadequate explanation. "Black was the first of his family sorted into Gryffindor, and before he'd finished Hogwarts he'd alienated his family and managed to get himself disowned. Nobody had anything to do with him for years. He was certainly never openly a Death Eater. We all knew that He had a spy inside the Order, but I was shocked, as was my wife, when Black was arrested."

"I see," said Tom. "That presents a problem, but if Black was that successful at spying, then that on top of his obvious competence in escaping from Azkaban makes him too valuable to pass up. You will pool your resources and come up with any helpful information you can about him by our next meeting."

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and Mulciber bowed and all but ran out the door as quickly as possible without making himself look as frightened as he was. Malfoy, on the other hand, lingered in the study. Tom looked up from his various parchments to glare dangerously at him.

"My Lord, forgive me. It's just that I wonder if you might be willing to… reconsider your position on Draco attending Hogwarts. He would be much safer at Durmstrang, and he would receive a much better education there as well. In fact, I had always planned to send him there, but Narcissa—"

"No," interrupted Tom, and Malfoy choked on whatever utterly uninteresting bit of family drama he had been about to share with him. "I need eyes at Hogwarts, and Draco has proven himself capable of meeting my expectations."

Lucius's eyes widened, and Tom imagined that he could almost see his hammering heartbeat in his neck.

"My Lord… with all due respect, isn't Draco too young to take on the responsibilities of a Death Eater? I had been planning on allowing my son to join at sixteen, the customary minimum age, but—"

"Your son?" Tom echoed, a cold smile twisting his lips. "Draco might be your son, but he is my follower. When he joins formally and what responsibilities he has in the meantime is entirely my decision, not yours. You lost that right, if indeed I would ever have considered letting you have it in the first place, when your family betrayed me."

Malfoy held onto the back of his chair as if he might fall over without it. "My Lord, I had nothing to do with my father's plot. I swear, I am your most loyal—!"

Tom took more pleasure than he probably should have in cutting the man off yet again. "You are certainly loyal to someone, but it isn't to me." He held up a hand to forestall Lucius's next protest. "I know that you had nothing to do with your father's betrayal, but I also know that the only reason he didn't want to involve you is that you never would have allowed him to plot against your son. It had nothing to do with your loyalty to me."

"That might have been his reasoning, My Lord, and of course it's true that I never would have gone along with any plan that put Draco in danger, but I would not have betrayed you even if Draco had not been involved."

Tom's smile grew wider. "I have seen your mind. You support me because you see me as the lesser evil and hope to protect your son from Lord Voldemort. If you thought tomorrow that my other self would offer a better deal, you would betray me in an instant."

His growing skills in the art made it easier than ever to pick up the rather loud half-thought that flitted across Lucius's mind before he could push it away. _If He offered Draco's freedom…_

The smile turned into a laugh. "Draco will never be free. Allow me to be perfectly clear so that we understand one another: He. Is. Mine. In fact, the only reason I am allowing you to live is that Draco is too young to take over the Malfoy estate and your various positions if I were to kill you like I am going to kill your father."

When Lucius Malfoy stumbled out of his father's study, anyone who saw him would have known immediately that something life-altering and horrible had happened to him. Tom knew that only he would ever know the reason, because Malfoy was certainly not stupid enough to mention their conversation to anyone else, especially not his wife. And especially not Draco himself.

* * *

As was common for him nowadays, Tom's good mood didn't last very long at all. Almost as soon as he was left alone to his own thoughts, the weight of his failure and his to-do list pressed in around him as if he were on the bottom of the ocean. The Horcrux's excited pulses of energy at sensing his general elation brought his mind almost immediately back to the matter that had been at the forefront of his mind over the past week: He couldn't keep putting off his plans and experiments until he had another Horcrux.

His attachment to the ring Horcrux, as ill-advised as it had always been, was now something he absolutely could not afford. The cup was beyond his reach, and as yet he'd had no luck trying to track down further Horcruxes.

Removing the ring from his finger felt almost as if he were removing his arm from his body, but he gritted his teeth and did it anyway. Perhaps he stared at it for too long without acting, but there was no one there to judge him for it except for the portrait of Sirius Black, which was leaning around the ring Tom had placed on top of it in order to continue screaming up at him.

With a sudden movement born of the thought that he had to either give up the idea completely or _just do it_ , Tom pointed his wand at one of his desk drawers and began moving it in a complicated pattern as he hissed the password. From inside the drawer he pulled out a lockbox that had been warded as impenetrably as he knew how to make it, and from there (after several minutes of delicate wand work and chants in Parseltongue) he carefully levitated out a clear vial no bigger than his pinky.

He refused to physically touch it. He was uncomfortable enough just touching it with his magic.

Hell, he was uncomfortable enough just being in the same room with it. He could sense its presence, in the same way he might sense someone looking at him except that it was a much stronger, more tangible feeling of danger.

With a lead heart, he carefully manipulated the vial until a single drop was teetering on the edge of the rim. He watched it grow until finally it dripped off the vial, and although he wanted desperately to stop it even in that split second it was in midair, a single drop of basilisk venom landed next to the ring, just shy of actually touching it.

He could feel the Horcrux going absolutely insane, but otherwise nothing happened.

A series of spells later had the venom removed completely from the desk and the vial resealed in its lockbox inside the desk. Then Tom picked up the riotous Horcrux and placed it back on his finger, allowing himself to be swept into the Horcrux's mindscape.

He had barely had time to reorient himself before he was engulfed by frigid arms and found himself face to face with the wide, terrified eyes of the other Tom.

"What happened?" demanded the Horcrux, either not bothering to or unable to mask the fear in his voice.

Tom had been more than reasonably certain that the Horcrux had no idea what was actually going on in the real world beyond some vague impressions of Tom's strong emotions when they were in close proximity, but if he'd ever had any lingering doubts they were swept away by this. There was no way that the Horcrux could have faked such a reaction, much less that he could have hidden his anger if he'd had any idea that Tom himself had been the one to put him in danger.

"There was an attack," he said, filling his voice with all the stress he'd actually felt, even if the words were a lie. "Basilisk venom…"

He trailed off by design and wrapped his arms around the Horcrux in return, allowing his body to shudder as if at the memory. The Horcrux moaned as if it were in distress and squeezed him tighter, crushing them together in a kind of embrace that Tom had never experienced before. It was odd, being held and holding someone for purposes other than domination or pure sexual gratification. It was stranger still given the fact that the Horcrux had not touched him since their first encounter, but he accepted it with all the grace he could.

After a while, the Horcrux spoke into his ear, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know what was happening, but I felt like I was going to die. There was this feeling of foreboding, and then suddenly there was this… terror. All I could do was scream and struggle. And then it was gone, and I was myself again, here in this graveyard. I've never—the feelings—I don't—"

"I know."

And he did. It was the same thing he had felt when Potter had come within inches of plunging a basilisk fang into his diary. He had never felt any emotion that strongly before, and he had never felt anything close since. _Overwhelming_ seemed a bit too underwhelming a word to adequately describe the experience.

He'd needed to know whether his feelings were entirely the result of watching Potter and knowing what would happen, or if it was also at least partially the result of the connection and sensory awareness of a Horcrux that he had known existed since he'd been interacting with the ring. He'd needed to know whether a Horcrux's sensory perception extended in that way to its surroundings.

Now that he had verified all of those things, he could leave the Horcrux's mind and run the test again on the diary, just to be absolutely, one hundred percent sure that it was no longer in any way connected to him. If it was still connected to him, he was sure that he would experience the same thing he had felt in the Chamber before his body had fully formed, the same thing that the other Tom had just experienced. If it was no longer connected to him then he was sure that he would feel no more discomfort than what he'd felt handling basilisk venom in general.

He had devised plenty of other tests, but none of them could provide him with absolute certainty. And he needed absolute certainty on this issue.

At the moment, though, he was more concerned with the way that the other Tom's lips kept brushing against his ear and then his jaw. He had thought it was accidental at first, but at a certain point he had to accept that it was not. That point came sometime between a brush against his jaw and the lightest touch of lips against lips. He wasn't sure exactly what his first reaction was, as all of his possible reactions seemed to come to mind all at once. It was only after he realized that he was more put off by the Horcrux's lack of body heat than by the kissing itself that his mind settled on opportunism.

Tom had known since the first time he'd found himself in the Horcrux's mind, even before the first time it had asked to be invited into his own mind, that it was looking for a way to take over. That it either wanted to force him to reveal the exact details of how he had created his body so that it could replicate it, or, if that avenue failed, to take over his body as its own.

It was exactly what he would have done in the Horcrux's position, and in fact it was little better than what he _had_ done to Ginny Weasley.

If this was how the Horcrux wanted to play the game of trust and manipulation between them, then Tom would play along, as unconventional and unexpected as it was. He would even let himself enjoy it; after all, what was it if not the ultimate form of self-pleasure? If this form of self-pleasure came wrapped in a game that, if he lost, would result in him losing control of his own body and soul, then that just made it more exciting.

When the Horcrux brought their lips together again, he pressed back to deepen the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom has so many balls in the air that it isn't the easiest task for me to juggle them (especially not within the general world limit I've given myself for chapters in this story), but I think I've got it worked out in this chapter. Please comment if you have any thoughts, and thank you again to those who reviewed the last chapter!


	11. Feet and Inches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom's plans move forward with varying degrees of success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a slightly tamer version on FFN.

It was fascinating that Tom's entire world had fit inside an eight by five inch space. It had seemed much larger to him, of course, since he'd had the rein of his own mind. Still, the fact that he had existed in such a small object was endlessly amazing to him.

The diary wasn't even an inch thick. How had it held him? How had he fit inside it?

If he were the kind of person who had… feelings… then it would undoubtedly also be endlessly uncomfortable or terrifying to think of it. As it was, he was simply fascinated. He couldn't wrap his mind around it, which was really saying something.

Tom ran his fingers over the cover. He'd thought it was so high quality when he'd bought it, but that had just been the ignorance of an orphan who'd had secondhand clothes and whatever supplies he'd been able to scrounge up. Since living in Malfoy Manor he'd been surrounded by only the best. The leather covering the diary was rough against his fingertips; the smooth leather of the blotter on Abraxas's desk was probably ten times better quality and a hundred times more expensive than anything Tom had ever owned.

The pages were still pristinely white despite everything the diary had been through, until Tom meticulously wrote the date in the top corner of the first page. He understood from Ginny's descriptions, when they'd first met, that whatever she had written had sunk into the diary, and whatever he'd replied had appeared in its place.

The ink stained the paper, _5 August 1993_ in his spidery script.

It neither disappeared from the page nor appeared in his consciousness like Ginny's words had. Tom leaned back in his chair and stared at the ink as if it would reveal all the answers he wanted.

Of course it didn't, and neither did the tiny sliver he ripped off the corner of the page. He didn't feel any of it.

Still, he felt his chest tighten in anticipation when he carefully tipped the small vial of basilisk venom over the diary. It had taken him days to get up the courage to finally do this, but it turned out that watching the drop fall had no great effect on him. There was no great increase in heartrate or perspiration or heavy breathing like he'd experienced the last time the venom had been about to come into contact with his diary. When he finally upended the entire contents of the vial onto the pages, he felt nothing as the paper began to wilt under the venom's corrosive powers.

Tom had thought he'd feel elation, or at least contentment, or _something_ , when he was finally able to say conclusively that he was himself, by himself. The reality was far less dramatic. He felt, as usual, next to nothing.

* * *

The trouble with holding the master of the manor captive was that his house-elves ultimately obeyed him. Tom had found it necessary to keep Abraxas knocked out in a magical coma to stop him from simply having his house-elves free him, which was extremely inconvenient when Tom wanted to question him about all sorts of things. The trouble with house-elves was that no one seemed to know enough about them for Tom to even begin to construct a magical barrier that would keep them out of a certain area no matter whether their master called them there.

Tom found it exceedingly distasteful to have to experiment on house-elves. Not because of any humane considerations, of course, but rather because they were annoying, foul little creatures that were better kept in the background away from wizards. By the third day of his series of experiments, his mood was really beginning to deteriorate.

Draco didn't seem to mind being around the servants nearly as much, and he also seemed to be developing a reckless sort of immunity to Tom's moods.

As the house-elf they were using that afternoon Apparated through Tom's magical barrier with seemingly more ease than ever before, Tom cursed aloud and followed it up with a magical curse for good measure.

Draco halfheartedly kicked the squealing, flailing creature further away from himself and diligently recorded the results in the ever-expanding ledger they'd procured for that purpose.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's add species-dependent barriers to the list of noes. I think we've exhausted all of the possibilities for it."

"We have," Draco confirmed after flipping back through his notes for a few seconds.

"All right, I'm finished with this today," admitted Tom, although his voice didn't betray the depth of his annoyance.

Draco nodded and scribbled a few more notes before snapping the ledger closed. Tom knew that he would have an updated report of all the combinations they'd tried on his desk by lunch the next day. (It was, he had to admit, much easier to conduct experiments when he had an assistant.)

"Er… My Lord…" began Draco before Tom could turn to leave the room. "I was wondering if I might… ask you something."

Tom turned back around to face him, one elegant eyebrow raised in inquiry.

Draco swallowed nervously. "It's just that I've been wondering about something I heard, you know, that day… about Tom Riddle."

If he'd been in the habit of external signs of his thoughts, Tom would have huffed in frustration. He shouldn't have been surprised, of course, that Draco had remembered his grandfather mentioning that name, or that he'd finally mustered up enough courage to ask about it. That didn't mean he couldn't be annoyed, however.

"That is my given name," he finally decided on confirming. There was no point in trying to hide it, since there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop the curious boy from looking him up in the Hogwarts library. If the Granger girl had found a picture of him, then Draco would undoubtedly accomplish the same. "Lord Voldemort is my chosen name."

Draco looked unsurprised, but he still bit his lower lip nervously, so Tom knew that he was not yet satisfied. In short order, he ventured, "But Riddle isn't… I mean, it isn't…"

"A wizarding name?" supplied Tom. "Yes, I am aware. Why do you suppose I chose to give up my name for another?"

Draco gaped at him, opening and closing his lips several times as if he meant to say something and then changed his mind.

Tom offered a weak smile and saved him the trouble of vocalizing his thoughts. "You're wondering why I think pure blood is so important, and why pure-bloods have been so eager to follow me if I am not pure myself. I have come to learn that purity of blood does not have anything to do with magical power, but it does have quite a lot to do with how connected to one's magic someone is. And obviously Mudbloods pollute the wizarding world with their pointless Muggle ideas, like the worst kind of poison eroding away our traditions and values and, most importantly, knowledge."

He stepped further into the room, nearer to Draco, who stared at him with wide gray eyes.

"Pure-bloods have followed me either because they do not know or, if they do know, they recognize my power as greater than theirs…. So much greater than theirs that it would be foolhardy to cross me, Draco. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he squeaked, then he cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean, yes, My Lord."

Tom smiled more genuinely now. "That's good, Draco. Very good. I trust that you do not have any more questions about this?"

"No, My Lord."

"And I will never hear that name from your lips again?"

"Of course, My Lord!"

"Undoubtedly you will look me up as soon as you step foot back in Hogwarts," Tom mused. "Perhaps I will answer your questions then, so long as you abide by our understanding."

The conversation now clearly over, Draco hopped down from the lab table he'd been perched on and followed Tom out of the large laboratory they'd claimed as their own.

Lucius was waiting for Tom outside of Abraxas's study. When he saw them coming down the corridor together, his pale face took on the same pained look as it normally did when he saw his son anywhere near Tom. Draco chirped a greeting to his father but didn't break his stride towards the library, and Tom shot an amused look at Lucius behind his son's back before gesturing for him to enter the study.

He wondered if watching Lucius watch him sit at Abraxas's desk would ever cease to amuse him. He hoped not.

"My Lord, I do not wish to raise your hopes unnecessarily," began Lucius, "but there may be an opportunity to find Potter." Tom, who had always found it beyond infuriating that Dumbledore had hidden Potter so well, perked up and waved his hand for more. "The Accidental Magical Reversal Squad was deployed to Potter's house last night—he blew up his aunt and then ran away, apparently—and Fudge tracked him down to the Leaky Cauldron this morning."

"He's at the Leaky Cauldron?"

Tom was ready to leap from his chair immediately, although what exactly he'd do was as yet beyond him, but Malfoy's apologetic look stopped him.

"Not anymore, My Lord. Arthur Weasley's department is always aware of these incidents; they have to quickly determine the nature of the magical event and coordinate which department handles it, of course. The Order spirited Potter away before I had time to even get there."

Tom levelled a cold glare at Malfoy.

"I know, My Lord, but at least Potter is away from his usual summer home. We have no way of finding _that_ , but at least we have a chance of figuring out where the Order has holed him up now."

"Oh good," replied Tom. "I'll just deploy my army to search every known member's house. We should hear back in a couple of days."

Malfoy looked torn between fear and exasperation. When he spoke, his words were obviously measured so as to get his point across with the least likelihood of being flayed alive. "I know that the situation is not entirely helpful, My Lord, and I did consider waiting until after I had a chance to get any additional information before I informed you. However, I thought you would want to know as soon as possible, before I risked my position to get information that you might not even want to use. I do not know your plans for Potter in order to coordinate my own responses accordingly."

Indeed, although a large part of Tom wanted to kill Potter at the first opportunity and hex Malfoy for good measure, the rational part was quick to remind him of all the downfalls. Sending Malfoy to get information on Potter's whereabouts was likely to make people suspicious of the man, even people who hadn't been suspicious up to this point (notably, Fudge himself). Even if he were successful, killing Potter would cause its own problems. It would immediately put the rest of the wizarding world on high alert, for one thing, even if many of them were not willing to admit that Lord Voldemort had returned. And Tom _was_ having such fun tearing down the Ministry's and the populace's confidence in Dumbledore and Potter, specifically by actually driving Potter as mad as he sounded….

"I was thinking, though, that if Black were to hear that Potter is on the move…" Malfoy's voice broke through the silence.

Tom curled his tongue up against the roof of his mouth for a moment as he tapped the tip of Potter's wand against his desk. Neither Mulciber nor Malfoy (even with the help of his wife) had been able to gain any more useful information about their escaped fugitive, and when Tom weighed the pros and cons of Black being at large he found himself uncomfortable with the possible consequences.

"Your thoughts have merit," he finally allowed. "I will rely on you to make sure that this information is front-page news. If Black makes a mistake, either we will get to him first, or he will be arrested and the Ministry will be able to determine conclusively that he acted alone."

Lucius looked relieved for the first time since he'd seen his son and Tom together. "Yes, My Lord. Either way we will come out ahead."

Tom's lips twitched in amusement, even though he was not unaware of the difficult position Malfoy was in. The man had no choice but to ingratiate himself to Tom, but because of the brand on his arm he would never be able to give Tom his full loyalty, even if that were what he wanted. Unfortunately for Malfoy, Tom knew that.

It was exceedingly amusing, but as Tom watched the back of Malfoy's blond head disappear out his office door, it occurred to him that it was also exceedingly inspiring when he considered how to handle his own followers, currently a party of one.

* * *

It turned out that the Granger girl was actually quite good at the task he'd given her. With the exception of the biased tone he could detect when she disagreed with something, her work was nearly professional quality. She had yet to work on anything severely above the level of a normal third year, though, so he was eager to review her work on the more difficult texts he'd brought with him on his trip. It was the second round of testing he planned to perform, and if she succeeded he would begin to give her books he had not yet actually read for himself (with, of course, a book or two he had actually read randomly delivered for continued quality assurance purposes).

He thought that her constant stares and lip biting were because she was expecting some sort of verbal indication that he thought she'd done a good job, but when she finally spoke it turned out to be on the subject they'd discussed during his last visit.

"I've been thinking about the first exception to Gamp's Law," she began hesitantly. When he looked at her impassively but offered no objection to the topic, she cleared her throat and started again. "I thought that it has to be impossible that no one has ever tested the theory, especially after that book was published, but of course I don't have access to a library or any book shops so I had to think theoretically about why the tests would have failed instead of just looking it up. My thoughts are only general, of course, because I couldn't look up any of the specifics, and I might be incorrect, of course, because I can't verify anything…."

She trailed off and looked at Tom expectantly, but he offered her no reassurance. She cleared her throat again.

"It's just that from what I understand about chemistry—You're right, of course, that magical children are horribly deficient in basic knowledge like that. I cannot believe that it has never occurred to me before to miss all of the things I would have learned had I continued in the Muggle education system! Science and mathematics and even history are so important that—!"

At Tom's raised eyebrows, she stopped speaking abruptly and a flush rose up on her cheeks, a marked contrast to her too-white complexion. She had only just begun to regain color in the weeks she'd been exposed to sunlight through the magically barred windows.

"Right, well, that is to say… From the limited knowledge of chemistry at my disposal, I think it must be impossible to recreate the exact chemical makeup of a food. It's so complex that I don't think it would be possible for someone to think about all of the factors that go into it, such as how two molecules can be structurally almost identical yet be so different. We can duplicate food we already have, or maybe we could modify food if we knew exactly what we were doing, but I don't think that we could possibly take into account all of the factors in transforming some non-food item into good, nutritious food."

Although she had presented her case in a strong voice, she looked at him nervously now, clearly frightened at his reaction to being told that he was wrong. To her obvious surprise, Tom allowed himself a small smile.

"Good, Granger. I am pleased."

"You're—you…" she spluttered. "You're _pleased_?"

Tom leaned back regally in his chair. "Yes. I only wanted you to think for yourself instead of spouting off a list of citations. It seems that not being able to look up answers in a book has done you a world of good."

If Hermione Granger had hated him before, he was sure from the expression on her face that she hated him doubly as much now.

"You mean that you knew what you were saying was wrong, but you—you _argued it anyway_?"

"I was playing devil's advocate, yes." He grinned at his own choice of words, this time genuinely. "It is terribly appropriate that I would be the devil's advocate, is it not?"

If she saw any humor in it at all, it was not apparent from her reaction. "I can't believe that I spent days agonizing over what you said when I was right all along!"

Tom leaned forward suddenly, and she abruptly stopped talking. He regarded her through narrowed eyes, finally saying, "I challenged you because you were utterly incapable of explaining _why_ or _how_ or anything else remotely useful. There is a difference between knowing an answer— _understanding_ it—and simply repeating what other people have said verbatim without being able to explain _why_. As I told you before, I have absolutely no use for you if all you can do is the latter."

Her brown eyes were wide and her face still flushed with embarrassment and fear when she ventured, in a small voice, "So you were telling the truth about making money? They _are_ wrong about that, even though they aren't wrong about food?"

"Yes, very good, Granger," he said mockingly. "You have learned today that sometimes what other people say is right and sometimes it is wrong, and the only way to tell the difference is to think for yourself."

She swallowed convulsively and asked, "Will you… explain it to me?"

It was clearly difficult for her to ask that of him, and internally Tom cheered at his success in pushing her to this point, as he had planned. She might end up being a useful asset in the end after all, or perhaps he would still end up determining that she was useless beyond the fact that her disappearance hurt Potter. Only time would tell. But at least now the door had been cracked open and she had a chance to push it open further and maybe to one day walk through it, to come to his side willingly.

Outwardly he allowed himself to deflate all at once, as if the anger he had been projecting had suddenly left him. He ran a hand through his thick hair, messing it up as if he had forgotten himself, and she noticeably relaxed.

"How about you tell me, Granger?" he asked, allowing his voice to lose its normally hard edge. "What is it about these particular lumps of metal that makes wizards unable to create them, and how might one get around that limitation?"

When he left the cabin this time, the Mudblood was staring after him with a look born of determined curiosity. As soon as his face was hidden from view, Tom allowed himself a smirk.

* * *

"Why do you want to find the others?" the Horcrux finally asked one day as he was nibbling down the side of Tom's neck.

Tom had been thinking about his answer since before he'd asked about the others the first time, and especially since they'd started their physical relationship. He had been waiting for days for the Horcrux to finally ask the question, to open the door to that discussion.

He massaged his fingers against the Horcrux's scalp and pulled him harder against his neck. "It's an insurance policy for when he—Voldemort—finds out about me."

The Horcrux released the suction on his skin with a smack and pulled back to stare at his face, eyes roaming over his features as if he might be able to discern all of the answers just from looking.

"You know he won't be happy that I have a body," clarified Tom. He tugged on the Horcrux's head to pull him back down, but at the resistance he sighed and let himself fall back against the grass with an irritable glare. "Fine," he said on another sigh. "He'll probably think destroying me is a better idea than allowing me to have a body, but if I have his other Horcruxes under my control or hidden where he can't find them then he won't think I'm expendable."

Of course he hadn't told the Horcrux about Voldemort's demise or about all of the research he had planned for his fellow Horcruxes, and he didn't plan on it either. He thought that he was more likely to get cooperation using only the self-preservation story.

The Horcrux stared at him through narrowed eyes as Tom busied himself running his hands over his partner's arms and shoulders as if he were too nervous to lie still.

"So you plan to, what, hide me away in another dark hole somewhere?"

"That would probably be safer for you," he said hesitantly, his fingers digging hard into the Horcrux's shoulders, "but I have grown rather… attached to you. I was thinking you might want to risk staying on my finger, even though Voldemort might be so angry that he fries us both."

They stared hard at one another for several long seconds, until Tom craned his neck up to press a kiss to the Horcrux's jaw, which was the furthest he could reach in this position. Then he found himself aggressively pressed into the ground as their mouths mashed together, and the Horcrux tugged insistently at the soft flannel pajama bottoms he was wearing.

Tom had always known where his game with the Horcrux would inevitably lead him. Their kisses had grown bolder every time he'd entered the graveyard, and he had come to look forward to the Horcrux's cold hands against his skin. He had steeled his mind for more, carefully thinking through what he would have to do and preparing himself to act.

He just hadn't expected it to come so quickly.

Still, his hands were steady as they undressed one another, and in response to the Horcrux's silent challenge, Tom smiled and leaned in to suck hard on a patch of skin on the underside of his jaw. Then he allowed his hand to be guided lower and his fingers to be wrapped around the Horcrux's erection. It was odd; Tom had hardly ever done this, as he usually wasn't concerned with his partners' sexual gratification and wanted to skip right to the fun parts—fun for himself, that is. However, in this case he was not ready to go that far, as he would undoubtedly have to allow himself to be the submissive partner, so he threw himself into making the experience as good for the Horcrux as he was able.

A few moments later, a cold hand closed around his own warm member, and that made it almost all worth it.

The Horcrux's cold breath brushed his skin when he moaned, and Tom fisted his hand through his partner's hair until he forced their mouths together in a violent clash of lips and tongues and teeth. Then it was all hot hands against cold skin, and cold hands against hot skin, and their hot and cold breath mingling whenever they groaned or whispered filthy words to one another.

It was the singularly most intimate experience Tom had ever had, which he found unaccountably hilarious since they hadn't gone further than tugging each other off.

The Horcrux’s fingers had warmed up enough now that Tom was left with only the feeling of slick fingers and a broad palm along his shaft. He let out an involuntary grunt and pressed his hips further up towards his partner after the Horcrux rather roughly ran his thumbnail along the slit, gathering up the fluid there and using it to further lubricate his movements.

He was pushed firmly back down into the ground, for which he retaliated by mimicking the same movements on the cock in his hand. For good measure, he reached up with his free hand and pinched one of the Horcrux’s nipples. That earned him a breathless sort of half-chuckle against his mouth before his counterpart nipped harshly at his lower lip.

It seemed to be over too soon. Tom had only just begun to really appreciate the feel of soft skin on the Horcrux’s hard shaft, and to feel brave enough to begin experimenting with different grips and movements, when suddenly he realized that he was on the verge of finishing.

When they had finally sated themselves, Tom's hot cum cooling against their stomachs and the Horcrux's cold cum warming, they lay motionless on their father's grave. The Horcrux was lying atop him, Tom's legs parted to accommodate him with the weight, heavier than expected, pressing him into the soft grass. The Horcrux was undoubtedly setting the tone of their encounters, making his point very clear that he was the dominant partner between them. Tom found that he didn't mind quite as much as he had at the beginning. Nor did he particularly care anymore that, now that he wasn't moaning or whispering against Tom's skin, the Horcrux had stopped going through the motions of breathing and felt almost like a corpse above him.

"Do you swear it?" the Horcrux eventually broke the silence. At Tom's hum of inquiry, he clarified, "That you only want the other Horcruxes so you can hide them. That you'll keep me with you."

"I swear," replied Tom, without any outward hesitation at all even though he had an internal aversion to swearing anything.

The Horcrux laid his head against Tom's shoulder and pressed his nose against the soft skin of Tom's throat.

"Before I was created, I had been thinking about the cave."

There was no need for him to elaborate on exactly which cave. And really, Tom felt like sort of an idiot that it had never occurred to him before—or as much as it was possible for him to feel that way about himself, which wasn't really much.

"I had not actually solidified any plans or put anything there," cautioned the Horcrux, "but it's the best I can do for you."

Tom turned his head to kiss the Horcrux, but, finding that he couldn't reach, he settled for nuzzling his cheek against the Horcrux's hair instead. "Thank you."

The Horcrux let out an exhalation of cold breath against Tom's neck and then pulled back.

"Where are you going?" asked Tom.

"I thought you'd want to go off Horcrux hunting," answered his counterpart.

Tom knew that there was undoubtedly an opportunity here to garner even more trust in the Horcrux's eyes. If not trust of him personally, then at least trust in the idea that he highly prioritized his relationship with the Horcrux. As much as he wanted to rush off to the cave immediately, he wanted even more to milk this relationship for all it was worth. Accordingly, he reached up to wrap his hand around the back of the Horcrux's head, running his fingers through the soft hairs at the base of his neck.

"Of course I do, but it can wait a while longer," he said truthfully, pulling the Horcrux down for a quick kiss. "At the moment I want this even more."

* * *

Later, Tom grinned maniacally up at dark green canopy of his bed at Malfoy Manor. He felt loose and satisfied due to his pleasant exertions with the Horcrux, although his lips and skin were as pristine as ever, without any hint of bruising or swelling. His body felt like he would after any normal wet dream, even though mentally he had the benefit of his memories as if they had happened in the real, physical world.

It seemed that the consequences of his actions with the Horcrux would be limited to his memories and whatever pertinent information he was able to gather. Including, at this very moment, the very likely location of another Horcrux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who reviewed; I think I managed to reply to everybody personally. Please everyone do let me know what you think!


	12. Victory and Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom experiences the highs and lows of being Lord Voldemort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the unreasonable delay. I've had some personal real-life issues, most notably my final semester at school and a new baby in my life, which took me over for a while. I'm just now getting back in the swing of writing fanfiction to relieve my stress.
> 
> There is violence, including blood play and rape, in this chapter. If you want the M-rated version (including the blood but excluding the rape), check it out on FFN. For an even more toned down version—more probably rated T than M—you can check out the version on FA. Both links are in my profile.

As far as hiding places went, Tom had to admit that, all other things being equal, the cave wasn’t a half bad one. It was on the coast a good half mile away from the nearest strip of accessible beach, and one had to clamber over sharp, slippery rocks, some of them as tall as a man, to access the narrow opening in the sheer rock face. He’d had to use a weak, self-invented compulsion spell and various other forms of magic to take the boy and girl he’d led there during childhood—he couldn’t quite seem to grasp their names from the edges of his memories—from the narrow beach to the cave.

However, all things were not equal. Albus Mudblood-fucking Dumbledore was aware of his unfortunate beginnings at Wool’s Orphanage, and there was absolutely no guarantee that he hadn’t found out about even this place, especially if he’d gone digging for information after finding out about Tom’s diary.

It seemed that Voldemort had been thinking even less clearly when he’d hidden a Horcrux here than he had been when he’d hidden one in the shack in Little Hangleton, if the complete absence of any discernable Parseltongue spells was anything to go by. Tom could easily detect the presence of his own magic (especially easily now thanks to his prolonged exposure to the ring Horcrux) along one rough stone wall along the back of the entrance chamber, and a very brief examination revealed that it was a relatively simple curse calling for a blood sacrifice.

Honestly, blood magic was all well and good, but why not pair it with the need for a Parseltongue password?

Tom was even less impressed by the submerged boat and the lake full of Inferi. If this were all that Voldemort had managed for the protection of a piece of his soul, then Tom hoped that this was one of the last ones he’d hidden, lest all the others turn out to be all but unprotected. An army of Inferi was a nice touch, he had to admit, but surely any wizard who’d completed his OWLs knew that all one needed to hold them off long enough to escape was a bit of fire?

He did have to hand it to his other self that the potion, held in an un-spillable basin and doled out by an un-spillable shell, was a rather ingenious piece of work. The first sip was terribly unpleasant, burning down his esophagus and into his stomach and churning there for a few horrifying moments as if it might actually take hold. Then, presumably because the potion was only intended to work on living creatures with actual bodies made out of something other than Dark magic and the essence of a pitiful little girl, it dissipated almost as soon as it had begun. Tom would have forced Abraxas or Lucius to come drink the rest of it had his experimental sip gone wrong, but he decided that he would rather endure the brief flashes of discomfort himself than bring either one of the Malfoys along to witness the cave.

All of the various defensive measures felt rather more like a fantastical production than real protection, and Tom concluded that Voldemort’s good sense must have long since been taken over by his flair for the dramatic.

Tom knew that something was terribly wrong when he picked up the locket for the first time. It didn’t call to him like the ring had from the moment he’d stepped inside the Gaunt shack, and when he finally touched it there was absolutely no spark of magic at all.

It seemed… like a completely normal locket.

He was tempted to give it a good shake and hold it up to his ear to see if he could hear anything inside, but instead he fumbled with the mechanism that made even his long, elegant fingers seem clumsy. It briefly crossed his mind as he finally managed to wedge one thumbnail between the two sides of the locket that perhaps he might find himself cursed like he had with the ring, but by then he’d pried it open.

* * *

The very foundations of Malfoy Manor seemed to shake with his fury when he landed in the front drawing room. His body, made of his magic as it was, seemed to act as a conduit for his rage in the same way his wand would surely spark if he were to hold it in his hand just then. He watched with satisfaction as the rug and sofa nearest him smoldered from the contact with his magic.

When a house-elf offered to take his cloak, he spun around and chucked the useless locket at the poor creature, as if he were still a sixteen-year-old boy in mind as well as appearance. The fit of childish pique made him feel better for a few seconds.

He needed something stronger, much stronger.

His first instinct was to track down Malfoy and demand information, but in the deepest recesses of his mind where he still had some semblance of sense, he acknowledged that he would probably end up killing the man. His imagination was running rampant with panicked screams and tangled limbs and Malfoy’s long pale hair spattered with blood. No doubt Tom would find a dead Malfoy very inconvenient after he’d regained control of himself.

Fortunately, he did have a pet Muggle whose only purpose in life was to fulfill Tom’s needs.

The boy had become somewhat resigned to his fate of late and had taken to submitting peacefully, even if Tom could see silent tears tracking down his once-tan face and could read in his mind that he wanted to fight back. This time, however, when he caught sight of Tom he reared backwards as if to avoid being caught and threw his arm out as if to fend off Tom’s hand. Tom could see himself through the Muggle’s mind: wild, blood-red eyes glowing out of a paper-white face with a monstrous expression, the malevolent shadow of magic surrounding his body moving to fill up the entire small room.

The Muggle’s terror provoked his anger even further. It made him want to destroy the boy. It made him hard.

He struck like a snake, darting around the Muggle’s defenses and wrapping his fingers in long, tangled hair. He used it to yank the boy up, reveling in the resulting yelp of pain and fear, and dragged his prisoner to the bed. The expanse of pale, smooth skin on offer offended Tom on some primal level he couldn’t immediately identify. He always took great care to heal the boy of whatever wounds he inflicted, as he had always enjoyed keeping his toys in pristine condition. No doubt it was some remnant from his years in the orphanage, when he’d only possessed a few small, stolen treasures and had no easy way of getting anything new. Now, though, he wanted to break something apart.

The first cut started at the Muggle’s shoulder and went diagonally down his back and across one pert ass cheek until it curved around the side of his hip. Tom couldn’t have said what spell he’d used, or if he’d even used one at all. It didn’t matter; the next cut crisscrossed in the opposite direction just as smoothly, and the one after that sliced through skin and muscle like a hot knife through butter.

The boy choked on a scream and twisted his fingers into the sheets on either side of his head. “Please, Master…”

It was a mistake. The sound of his pleas, of his weakness, disgusted Tom and only fueled the flames of his fury. He felt like his entire body was burning, and he thought that surely if his body were made of flesh and bone then this wild, uncontrolled magic would have consumed him by now. Normally being so out of control of himself would be a bit worrying to him, but in his present state of mind all he could think about was the blood that flowed from the Muggle’s back onto the once pristine sheets.

He breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of sweat and fear and blood, and as he exhaled he cut another deep line across the soft canvass laid out before him.

Then again. And again. Until he felt some semblance of his control return.

The Muggle was screaming continuously now, not just each time he was cut, but his struggles were in vain. The wiggling and bucking only served to make Tom’s slashes less precise, until on one vicious down stroke blood splattered across his face and into his mouth. Tom swallowed and paused mid-strike, running his tongue across his lips to gather the coppery fluid that had landed there. It tasted like life and death together, and he wondered suddenly if he’d be able to taste magic in a wizard’s blood. It was all supposed to be about the blood, wasn’t it?

It was really quite amusing how such thoughts came to him at the strangest times. He grinned to himself, a bit more of the blood dripping down his face and into his mouth at the movement, and crawled forward onto the bed until his hips were pressing against the Muggle’s backside.

The Muggle usually spread his legs haphazardly to accommodate his master, which was something of an automatic response that had been beaten into him after so many long weeks under Tom’s attention, but this time he didn’t move. Tom frowned and brought his palm down harshly across the deepest of the gashes on the Muggle’s back. The vicious crack of skin against skin rang clearly across the silent room and the boy’s body jerked once with the impact, but there was no further reaction.

Tom frowned even deeper and prodded the Muggle again, absentmindedly flicking his tongue out to catch a drop of blood he could feel tickling his skin as it ran down the side of his nose. He finally got a reaction. It was only a slight moan, but it was sufficient to convince Tom that his toy wasn’t going to expire at any given moment.

He forcefully spread his toy’s legs and dragged the prone body back towards him. His hands slipped against the blood-slicked skin, but it only excited Tom even more. He dipped his fingers into the blood and dragged it along the Muggle’s back and down between the generous globes of his ass. The boy was well used by now and his body relatively pliant, but it was apparently still painful with only blood for lubrication. When Tom forced two of his fingers inside, the Muggle actually moaned and flinched, although he did not have enough energy to try to move away.

Although causing the Muggle pain was quite intoxicating, Tom had absolutely no desire to hurt himself by using only blood for lubricant. He cast a minimal lubrication charm on himself before roughly lining himself up. He was a bit annoyed when the Muggle didn’t really react, so he grabbed hold of the boy’s hips and dug his fingers hard into the deep gashes there. Only when his victim whimpered in pain did he shove himself inside.

It was warm and wet and tight, but not nearly so satisfying as he’d hoped. His mind was too active, his fury too great, his body too tense. He dug his fingers deeper into the cuts and threw his head back as he snapped his hips harder and faster. His body responded to the pleasurable sensations and to the red tangle of pain and fear in the Muggle’s mind, but his own mind was still racing and it did nothing for his anger.

Recognizing that it was a waste of time and that his interest was flagging, he allowed himself to finish more quickly than usual and, with a final squeeze of the Muggle’s tortured hips, pulled himself free.

He clambered off the bed and retrieved his wand, then set to putting himself to rights. The long, boiling shower did little more to relieve his thoughts and tensions than had the sex, but he forced himself to return to the Muggle’s room to heal the worst of the damage before it was too late.

The boy was in the exact same position Tom had left him in. Tom dug his fingers into the Muggle’s shoulder and flipped him over, uncaring of the way it made the cuts on his back split even further open. Tom knew—Of course he knew!—before he saw, but there was confirmation in the cold, unseeing eyes and the permanent grimace plastered across the pale face. His toy had gone and died on him.

It was most inconvenient. And without his permission, too!

Tom scowled and roughly shoved the body back down on the red-stained sheets. His body was still humming with magic, but his disappointment at this turn of events seemed to have disrupted the head of steam he’d been building up. His wand hand twitched and a storm of sparks shot out of the end, but he didn’t have enough motivation anymore to go out and seek havoc to wreak.

His fury was a fleeting thing, as were all of his feelings, and once it abandoned him he was left as empty as always.

Tom Riddle never _forgot_ , and he never _forgave_ , but once the cloud of emotion cleared from his mind he was able to put his grudges and his resentments to good use. Productive use. As he stared in the mirror at his eyes, which had returned to their normal deep brown, he acknowledged that the truth was that his cold, unfeeling calculations were ten times more dangerous than his blind, emotional rages.

Then he smiled at the thought that victims of his anger, such as his dearly departed pet, would probably disagree with own self-assessment.

* * *

 

Tom was as in control of himself as he’d ever been by the next day, but by then his exploits had become known to everybody in the manor. Breakfast was an exceedingly uncomfortable affair for the Malfoys, although Tom enjoyed himself quite well. Lucius had become even more stiffly formal in his presence than usual, and Tom could see in his thoughts that he had come to think of Tom as closer in personality and proclivities to Lord Voldemort. He could see in Narcissa’s mind that she was rather more furious about the mess he had made in her manor than she was actually upset about what he’d done to the Muggle, but she was also clearly very worried about the continually growing influence Tom had on her son.

As for Draco, almost as soon as Tom had settled into his chair, he wasted almost no time asking, “Did you know that you scared Great-Great-Great-Aunt Marcella so badly that Mother still can’t find her?”

Tom could feel his eyebrows rising on his forehead quite without his say-so. “Who?”

“Well, her portrait, of course, not the actual woman,” replied Draco, waving his hand in a dismissive way that might have provoked Tom to Cruciate him if he hadn’t known that it was an unconscious mannerism. Tom thought that Lucius might fall out of his chair with worry, but Draco didn’t seem to notice. “She’s kept in the entrance hall, but she ran out of her frame last night and hasn’t been seen since.”

Normally Tom wouldn’t hesitate to inform his little assistant that he really didn’t care about Great-Aunt Whoever, and that he really ought to remember to tack on a “My Lord” or two to the end of his sentences, but this morning Tom was enjoying the elder Malfoys’ discomfort far too much. He offered a toothy smile that he could tell, from reading their thoughts, set the elder Malfoys on edge even as Draco grinned back at him.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” said Draco. He twirled his fork around in his fingers absentmindedly, as if it were his wand, and finally seemed to pluck up the courage to continue. “You must have been really angry….”

 _Ah_ , Tom thought to himself when Draco’s thoughts finally revealed his motivations, _I have no idea how people who aren’t Legilimens can function_. It seemed that Draco was aware that something dreadful had happened the night before, but his parents had been tightlipped about the details. He was, quite rebelliously, hoping that Tom would fill in the details for him, and furthermore he thought rather bitterly that perhaps his parents would see that the _Dark Lord_ didn’t treat him like a child.

“Draco, darling,” interjected Narcissa, unable to maintain her silence any longer, “I am sure the Dark Lord would like to enjoy his breakfast in peace.”

Tom turned a sharp, unblinking gaze on the woman, although he addressed her son. “Yes, I was very angry. Someone dared to defy me, to steal from me. Do you know what happens to those who stand between Lord Voldemort and what belongs to him, Draco?”

Narcissa’s rapidly whitening face showed that she clearly understood his double meaning. Although Tom did not turn his gaze to her husband, he could clearly read in the deep, sick panic in Lucius’s mind that he also understood.

Oblivious to the tension around him, Draco replied, “I imagine they’re killed, My Lord. Like my grandfather will be.”

“Killed, yes, but punished first. Tortured.”

Narcissa Malfoy looked like she was ready to leap over the table and drag her son to safety, if she hadn’t known that she’d be obliterated before her ass fully left her chair. Her eyes darted over to her husband, and Tom finally followed her gaze to see that Lucius was shooting her a quelling look, though he looked as if he were barely maintaining his usual haughty mask. Cold clarity settled over Tom’s mind and the pieces of several scattered plans came together all at once as he looked at their faces and read their fears.

He allowed his smile to stretch further across his white teeth and rose gracefully from the table. “Come, Draco. We have a lot to accomplish before you leave for Hogwarts tomorrow.”

Draco looked longingly at the remains of his breakfast, but he dutifully left the table and made to follow Tom out of the breakfast room. Tom was amused to note that he didn’t even look to his parents for permission or glance back at them as he walked towards the door. When he’d first moved into Malfoy Manor, Draco hadn’t seemed able to do anything without his parents’—particularly his father’s—approval. Tom pushed the door open with one hand and used his other hand to usher Draco through as he passed by, locking eyes with Narcissa as he pressed his hand into her son’s back. Then, with one last wicked smirk for her benefit, he followed the youngest Malfoy out the door.

The entire episode had made him feel much better than he had even earlier that morning. And, he thought as he eyed the blond head in front of him, he would feel even better when his plans came to fruition.

“I thought about our calibration problem,” he began without preamble as soon as they’d shut themselves into their laboratory. He had laid awake the entire night and allowed his mind to mull over the complicated puzzle of house-elf magic in order to keep his thoughts off of the stolen Horcrux. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

They had managed to create a barrier through which house-elves couldn’t travel, but then their tests had revealed that it didn’t work across long distances. Even Tom had been completely confused about the mechanics behind such a thing, and he’d had to send Lucius out for several advanced books on wards that even Malfoy Manor’s library hadn’t held.

Draco paused as he was shifting to get comfortable perched on his usual table. “Oh. Are you leaving, then?”

The last time they’d tested distance, Tom had Apparated several hundred miles away, first to the cottage where he kept the Mudblood and then to a small village in Scotland that he remembered from a visit to one of his fellow Slytherins fifty years before.

“No. You’re leaving for Hogwarts, though.” Draco looked truly deflated at the thought, and Tom knew that as much as he wanted to return to school, he didn’t want to give up the education he was getting at the Dark Lord’s hands. A smirk flitted across Tom’s mouth. “I have been considering all the things you can do for me at the school. I am used to being in the castle myself, but I believe that your eyes and ears might do just as well.”

That was a lie, but Draco seemed to take the praise at face value, if the way he lit up like a Christmas tree was any indication. “What can I do, My Lord?”

There were many things Tom could do and experiments he could run using the unique blend of wards and residual magic around Hogwarts Castle, but Draco was not at all qualified to do them—at least not yet, although Tom did hold out hope that he could eventually shape the potential he saw in the boy into something he could use. In truth, the most important thing at this point was to tie Draco to him forever so that Draco’s parents would likewise be tied to him forever, regardless of Lucius’s existing ties to Voldemort. Whatever use he happened to be able to get out of such a young, inexperienced follower was just a bonus.

But he couldn’t let Draco know that, so he said, “Beyond testing our house-elf ward, you will be able to keep an eye on Potter and Dumbledore, and, of course, to let me know if anything else interesting happens. Right now I would not want to give you duties that might interfere with your schoolwork, because it is important that you develop your skills for the future.”

“Oh, yes, My Lord, I understand.” Draco was still beaming at him. “I want to be powerful enough that I can…”

He trailed off, a flush creeping up his cheeks, but he ought not to have bothered since Tom didn’t even need to read his thoughts to know what he was thinking.

“Be like your father?” he supplied. “We have had this conversation before, Draco, and I maintain that you are not like your father. You ought to focus on fully developing your own strengths rather than poorly imitating your father’s strengths.” Draco looked as if he would argue if anyone had said that to him besides the Dark Lord, and his thoughts were much the same. Tom raised an eyebrow and pinned him with a severe look, probably the most severe look he’d given Malfoy in weeks. “Your father has failed me on numerous occasions and only narrowly avoided the same fate as your grandfather.”

He was pushing his luck, he knew. Although Draco had slowly but surely begun to start viewing his father as a flawed human being and not as a god, he still held more real affection for the man in his little finger than Tom had ever held for anybody or anything in his entire life. Therefore, before Draco could think too long about it, Tom got to the point.

“Still, you once said to me that you want to earn your place among my followers, and at least you have succeeded there. I want to mark you before you leave.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open. “Wha—what?”

“As you may have noticed, I do not have a surplus of people I want to work with at the moment. I want to reward you for your hard work and dedication.” He had found that flattery always worked better on Draco than anything. “You will be the first, you know, since my return.”

He still seemed to be in shock, but Draco managed to stutter, “I—I’m honored, My Lord.”

Tom allowed a true smile to peak through his mask at Draco’s racing thoughts. It was true that he felt honored, as well as more than a little scared, but it was the other thoughts that made Tom laugh.

“Indeed, the Dark Mark is ugly as hell. Fortunately for you, I have created a new Mark, one far less likely to immediately identify you as my follower should someone see it.”

Of course there was another, far more immediately practical reason he had developed his own mark: He couldn’t replicate the Dark Mark, which was tied to Voldemort’s magic, and anyway he wanted his followers to be tied _to him_ , not to his other self. But it was also true that he thought it was a bit impractical to have such a conspicuous mark right on his followers’ forearms. He had come to the conclusion that his other self must have lost his mind almost completely after very few Horcruxes.

His mark was the Slytherin house crest, which was admittedly not the most creative choice. Still, if anyone were to see it they would mostly likely assume that his followers had simply gotten tattoos celebrating their Hogwarts house, and it could easily be adapted for followers from other houses whenever he began recruiting in earnest. And he would allow them to put it anywhere they would like, so that there wouldn’t be dozens of people walking around so conspicuously with the same tattoo on the same place on their bodies.

Draco chose to have his on his side under his arm, as they both agreed that nobody would believe that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had allowed their son to get and then keep a tattoo at age thirteen, and it was too big a risk that someone would see it on his arm. He removed his shirt and laid on his side on the table. He was shivering more from fear than from the cold, but he didn’t flinch when Tom pressed the tip of his wand against his skin. He cried out when Tom cast the spell, but after the initial jolt he merely whimpered occasionally as the magic swirled into his skin and formed the silver serpent on its green background.

When it was over, Tom did him the courtesy of casting a cooling spell on the burning Mark. When Draco sat up, Tom could see that his face had gone pale with pain, but his eyes were dry and he managed a pleased smile.

“Will it—” he started, then stopped as the movement of his muscles caused him to wince a bit. He let out a breath and started again. “Will it hurt like this when you call me? My grandfather told me that it did.”

Tom raised an eyebrow almost involuntarily. It would seem that Lord Voldemort did not favor Abraxas as much as Tom Riddle had. Or perhaps he had so lost control of his sadistic tendencies that he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hurt someone.

“No. Not unless I want it to hurt. See.”

He drew on the magical connection between them and watched as Draco jumped slightly in surprise. He had only given a slight tug, and Draco grinned wider in response.

“That’s not so bad! Do you have a Mark, too?”

Tom did not, in fact. He had quickly learned from studying Abraxas’s and Lucius’s Marks that they had to be tied to some physical, controlling object in order to be used. He could only assume that his older self had Marked himself, but Tom had also quickly realized that he was actually a magical object himself. He had been slightly unnerved for a fraction of a second to consider himself an object instead of a person, but then he’d gotten over it when he’d realized the benefits. Such as the fact that he could use himself as a magical object when necessary, like when he needed to tie his followers’ Marks to a physical object and his magical body wouldn’t actually accept a Mark.

He had other factors to test, of course, such as whether he could be recognized by spells that depended on one’s humanity, such as the Human Revealingspell, Age Lines, and wards, but he rather suspected that he couldn’t.

“No,” he answered.

Almost before he’d managed to get the word out, Draco asked, “Does my father know that you’ve allowed me to join?”

Tom tried his best to mask the maliciousness in his smile, and luckily Draco didn’t seem to recognize it. “I thought that I would allow you the pleasure of informing him of your accomplishment yourself.”

In short order, he’d sent Draco trotting off to find his parents. As soon as the door closed behind him, Tom allowed himself to laugh long and hard.

* * *

Lucius rushed into his father’s—now Tom’s—study with only a few seconds to spare before the time Tom had instructed him to arrive. Mulciber looked up from the reports he was arranging on a small table beside his chair and immediately looked taken aback at the wan, pinched look on his compatriot’s face. Tom only stared impassively as Lucius offered a perfunctory bow of his head and took his seat, although inside he was still laughing.

“Well?” he asked, his voice high and dangerous.

Lucius glanced up long enough to meet his eyes, then looked back down at his knees. “I saw Potter get on the train, My Lord.”

“Well, Malfoy, it seems that your grand plans to capture Potter have not worked out, after all,” replied Tom, and Mulciber snorted in amusement. “Not to worry, Lucius; your son will keep an eye on Potter for me.”

Lucius did not look up from his lap, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes, My Lord.”

The look on Mulciber’s face could only be described as sheer confusion. Tom turned his harsh gaze on him. “Well, Mulciber, do you have any better news for me?”

“Yes, My Lord. The most recent reports from the Healer indicate that Molly Weasley is truly losing it. Her fear over her remaining children returning to Hogwarts has led to almost daily sessions with her Mind Healer, and her relationship with her oldest school-age son—Percy, I believe—has deteriorated almost to the point that he won’t speak to her. What might interest you more, My Lord, is that the family encountered Potter in Diagon Alley, and Molly Weasley caused such a scene that her husband Apparated her straight to Saint Mungo’s. It’s all here in these copies of the reports.”

Tom accepted the neat stacks of parchment, although he would not read them until later. “And Potter?”

“I’m sorry to say that the Healer did not make many notes about Potter, but the scant information we have indicates that he appeared very hurt by her reaction to him.”

“He did look out of spirits, My Lord,” inserted Malfoy, “and at least we know that Potter can’t stay with the Weasleys, for future reference.”

Completely unable to resist such an opening, Tom said, “I will inform Draco to watch out for any interesting behavior from Potter or the remaining Weasley brats.” Malfoy deflated even more, and Tom had to really work to keep his impassive mask firmly on his face. After several loaded seconds, he continued. “Now, somebody tell me about R.A.B." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in GoF Voldemort asks Wormtail for his arm so that he can call the other Death Eaters. I always thought it was extremely impractical if he couldn't call his followers without needing one of them present, and anyway it doesn't make sense that his followers could call him by pressing on their own Marks but he couldn't call them in return. So I usually use one of two ways to explain it to myself: 1) He could have actually called them without Wormtail's help in GoF, but he just wanted to torture Wormtail a bit more. 2) He needed a master Mark on himself, but when he lost his body he lost his own Mark and had to recreate it after the graveyard. I obviously chose the second version here.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to everybody who reviewed over the long weeks between chapters. It really made me want to write more, even when I was at my most stressed.


	13. Chicanery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art of deception is taken to new heights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chicanery: noun, actions or statements that trick people into believing something that is not true; deception by artful subterfuge or sophistry. The use of such trickery to achieve a purpose. (Adapted from Merriam-Webster, Google definitions, and YourDictionary).

The day after Draco left for Hogwarts, Lucius had dinner with the Minister of Magic and several other high-ranking men who liked to make deals and discuss political gossip over Firewhisky and magical cigars in the middle of the day. Even with her husband and son gone, Narcissa apparently still planned to serve a formal noontime meal as usual, as Tom received a ridiculously formal invitation from her personal house-elf. He declined (if cursing the house-elf out of the room and ignoring the invitation entirely could be called declining), as he had no need either to eat or to sit across a table from Narcissa Malfoy, and anyway he was ears-deep in a complicated treatise on ritualistic soul sacrifices.

Shortly after the ostentatious clock in Abraxas's study chimed one, the woman herself appeared in the doorway. Tom would have cursed her out of the room too, except that the flurry of thoughts flitting across her mind signified a determination that made him quite curious.

"My Lord," she began, as stiff as the lace at her collar, "I would like to offer you information in exchange for my son's freedom."

Tom could barely contain his amusement long enough to pin her with the severe glare she deserved.

"I am afraid that Draco is not for sale."

She froze from head to toe for long seconds, although he could see the tempest behind her eyes. Finally she gathered herself enough to say, "His safety, then. Your vow that you will not harm him, and that he will come out the other side of this mess alive and whole."

"I am also afraid that my vows are not for sale." Tom's amusement was quickly fading into indignation and anger that this bitch dared to think she could bargain with the Dark Lord. Before she could make another offer, he asked, "What makes you think that I won't simply rip the information from your mind and then harm Draco to spite you?"

"You like him," she replied immediately, desperately. She sunk into the nearest chair gracelessly, as if she would have collapsed onto the floor if she hadn't sat down. "You did not punish him for his mistake at the beginning of the summer, or like you said you would if the potion failed. You might punish _me_ , but—"

But he could clearly see in her mind the images that she was so fiercely afraid of, the ones that made her so terribly ill that she had concocted this mad scheme to protect her son.

He nearly cackled in malevolent delight at such a perfect opportunity to hurt her.

"I like him enough that when I fuck him, I'll make sure he learns to enjoy it, to _beg me_ for it—eventually."

Her blue eyes shot wide for a few seconds before she slammed them shut and bowed her head for good measure.

"Don't bother with that, you stupid woman," he continued in the same sadistic tone. "I can read your thoughts just as clearly whether I have eye contact or no. Except, curiously, for the information you claim you have to trade with me…. Ah, yes, I see. A secrecy charm, very cleverly applied."

Narcissa was visible trembling. "Please, My Lord—"

"You would make a great follower if you weren't so hung up on this idea of getting Draco away from me," he went on as if he hadn't heard her. "My dear woman, if and very probably _when_ I decide to sodomize your son, there is nothing you or anybody else can do to stop me."

Dear Salazar, watching her face crumple in hopelessness and impotent rage was the most hilarious thing Tom had experienced in ages! Who had she thought she was dealing with? He wasn't even sure that he was managing to keep his expression of sadistic glee off his face. He discreetly checked his features in the shiny, reflective surface of Abraxas's desk.

"Now then, let's discuss the terms of this deal you want to make. You will tell me every last detail of whatever you know, or I will suddenly find myself so overcome with desire that I just won't be able to help myself the next time I see pretty Draco."

A shudder ran the length of Narcissa's body, but she looked up and met his eyes bravely. Her gaze was filled with such hatred that Tom almost thought it was cute.

"Regulus Arcturus Black," she said clearly, withdrawing a familiar locket from her pocket and setting it on the edge of the desk with very determined control. "R.A.B. I recognized his handwriting immediately when the house-elf you hit with this brought it to me."

Tom sat back in his enormous high-backed chair and considered her over the steeple of his long fingers. "Your cousin."

"Yes. You— _He_ used my cousin's house-elf for some sort of secret purpose about two years before the end of the war, and Regulus disappeared a few days later. The family all assumed that you— _He_ had killed him, except for my sister, who would never have believed ill of her lord."

He probed her mind viciously, but he could tell that it was still not entirely open to him.

" _Crucio_ ," he hissed, and her body immediately contorted as she screamed and flopped out of her chair and onto the floor. He counted to ten and released the curse. "You are still hiding something."

"My—my sister!" she sobbed and did not get up. The front part of her hair had escaped its chignon to fall over her wet face in a blonde cascade. "She told me—years ago she told me, just weeks before she was arrested—that Sirius had never been a Death Eater, that it was his friend Peter Pettigrew who had been the spy!"

Tom, who had come around the desk to stand over her prone form, gave her a swift kick in the stomach that made her heave and sent her splayed out across the floor. He reached down to grab the silky locks of freed hair and used them to violently wrench her head up so that her terrorized eyes met his.

"How would she know that?" he hissed. He yanked her hair again when she didn't immediately reply, only to realize belatedly that he had asked in Parseltongue. He repeated the question in English, but not before giving her another shake for good measure.

Her hands frantically sought purchase on any surface she could reach. "Please! She was one of the Dark Lord's most favored followers; she said that she was one of the Death Eaters He sent to—to _convince_ Pettigrew to become a spy!"

Tom released her and she collapsed face-first onto the priceless rug, as if all of her muscles had failed her.

"You would dare keep this from me even when I sent your husband specifically to ask you?" he asked, so filled with rage that he couldn't even tell whether he was speaking in Parseltongue or English. "You would dare keep _anything_ from me? _Crucio_!"

He held the curse for interminable minutes as he rolled his neck in an attempt to relieve his tension and pondered what he would do about the new information. He would need to exhaustively examine all of the possibilities of the Regulus Black lead. After all, it was entirely possible—he hoped—that the man hadn't managed to destroy the Horcrux, or that he was still alive somewhere waiting to use it to his advantage. He had no idea what he would do about Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black, and at this point he couldn't bring Lucius in on it. He would never bring any of the older Malfoys in on anything ever again; for that matter, he was becoming quite iffy about even Draco.

Well, except that, even if he hadn't ever seriously given any thought to the issue before, now Tom was absolutely decided that he would take the boy to bed just to spite his lying, conniving mother, if for no other reason. Not immediately, of course, because although he had no moral qualms about shagging such a young boy (or any moral qualms at all, for that matter), he was not a pedophile. And he wanted to be able to rub it in her face that Draco had offered his body to Tom willingly, which would take some time.

He realized suddenly that she'd stopped screaming, and with a loud expletive he released her from the Cruciatus Curse. It wouldn't do to turn her into a vegetable before she could see the fruits of his labor.

Merlin, he would be severely annoyed with himself if he managed to accidentally break two playthings within a week.

A cursory examination showed him that she hadn't lost her mind yet, so he was satisfied to leave her as a whimpering mess on the rug for her husband to see when he returned home. He walked back around to the other side of the desk and retook his seat, picking up his quill and unconsciously sticking the end in his mouth as he further considered his plans.

His thoughts were interrupted by a house-elf carrying an official-looking letter. It stared frozenly at the heap that was its mistress, until Tom demanded, "Give it to me."

He had only intended to take the letter in order to use the most expedient way to make the house-elf go away, but then he noticed the handwriting on the outside and, uncaring of the Malfoys' privacy, opened it immediately.

> _Father,_
> 
> _I was attacked by a mad hippogriff in Care of Magical Creatures. What was Dumbledore thinking letting that oaf Hagrid be a professor? My arm was split open almost to the bone! The school matron assures me that she has healed it completely, but it still hurts and what does she know anyway? She's just a school nurse. What if it scars?!_
> 
> _They haven't let me see Snape, and those idiots McGonagall and Pomfrey assured me that there was no need for them to contact you for a "minor injury"! I had to get Pansy to sneak this up to the owlery!_
> 
> _Come soon._
> 
> _Draco_

Tom blinked for a few moments before he finally smiled. Clearly the boy wasn't severely injured at all if he found the wherewithal to be such a prissy git. "What if it scars," indeed. Nonetheless, Tom could see that this was the opportunity he and Lucius had been looking for.

He might not be willing to trust Lucius Malfoy with any sensitive assignments, but he knew that he could trust the man's political dealings on the issue of Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore, as they were of the same mind there.

"Get up," he ordered Narcissa, casting several waking spells and nudging her rather harshly with the toe of his shoe. "Your son is coming home; you had better look in perfect order when he gets here and not give one tiny indication that anything is wrong."

There was no need to state the "or else."

* * *

As it turned out, Lucius had several world-renowned Healers in his pocket due to the family's patronage of St. Mungo's. Although there was nothing technically wrong with the job Madam Pomfrey had done on Draco's arm, a specialist in cosmetic healing _had_ been able to save him even the miniscule, barely noticeable scarring he would have had otherwise. More importantly, the Healers had been willing to sign off on reports stating that Draco's injuries had been extensive and that without proper medical attention he might have had impaired function in his arm.

They got new equipment for the Creature-Induced Injuries Ward and a newly endowed program for cosmetic healing; Tom got a Ministry investigation into the incident that had almost maimed Lucius Malfoy's son.

Mulciber had personally convinced the other members of the board of governors to report the incident to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, as they hadn't wanted any appearance of Lucius using his influence for his son's benefit. However, Lucius had stepped in behind the scenes to somehow ensure that his friends in the department—Death Eaters and Death Eaters' children, he told Tom—were assigned to the case.

Two days after the attack, it was the top story in the _Daily Prophet_ , under the headline HOGWARTS THIRD YEAR MAIMED IN CARE OF MAGICAL CREATURES.

The lead Healer and the head of the Ministry inquiry both provided statements about the seriousness of Draco's injuries and the ongoing investigation, but what most pleased Tom was the statement Mulciber had made on behalf of the school board.

"It is utterly unacceptable that third-year students would have been exposed to such dangerous creatures as hippogriffs," he had said. "They are classified by the Ministry as an XXX magical creature, which means that competent wizards should be able to cope with them. I think we can all agree that students in their first year of class—their first day, in fact—cannot be considered competent wizards expected to be able to handle hippogriffs. Furthermore, as the board of governors expressed to Headmaster Dumbledore when he first appointed Rubeus Hagrid as professor of this dangerous subject, we are concerned that a gamekeeper who never completed Hogwarts cannot be considered a competent wizard himself. Rest assured that the board is thoroughly investigating this incident."

Lucius had added, after expressing sufficient concern for Draco and titillating readers with hints of a grueling and bloody recovery process, "I have no doubt that Mr. Hagrid, as a half-giant, is perfectly capable of taking care of himself in his own unique way. I doubt is his ability to teach our children how to properly deal with such creatures, and also, as my son's injuries illustrate, his ability to properly protect them while doing so. Furthermore, Mr. Hagrid did not complete his education because he was expelled from Hogwarts for harboring an Acromantula inside the school, which injured several students and killed one during the 1942 to 1943 school year. The Hogwarts by-laws currently state that the headmaster has full autonomy to make staffing decisions, but it is clearer than ever to me and to my colleagues on the board of governors and in the Ministry that it is too easy for the headmaster to abuse that power to appoint incompetent, unqualified, and even dangerous people to position at Hogwarts."

The three of them had spent half an hour in Tom's study constructing the statements so as to give the most damning information possible against Dumbledore. Even the fact that Hagrid was explicitly outed as a half-giant would fuel public outrage against the headmaster, although surely anyone who had ever gone to Hogwarts had to have at least suspected it before. Now Mulciber and Lucius would push for governor-controlled staffing decisions and, more immediately gratifying for Tom, the removal of the current headmaster.

Draco spent most of morning giggling over the article while making full use of his completely uninjured arm, until Tom directed him to his studies. After all, although they were planning to keep him home for a full week, he still had to keep up with his schoolwork.

It was a second article in the paper, on the third page and much smaller than the first, that had most piqued Tom's interest that morning. He left for the cottage almost as soon as he'd noticed it.

The Mudblood had chopped her hair off at her shoulders, no doubt because it had become such a rat's nest that she hadn't been able to salvage most of it. She kept reaching up to shove it back behind her ear every few seconds as it escaped to fall into her face. She was so engaged in the book she was bent over that she didn't seem to notice that she was doing it, and she hadn't even noticed him come in. It was quite pathetic, Tom thought, because when he had allowed himself through the wards and into the cottage the shift in magic alone should have alerted her to his presence. Either she was not at all powerful, or she was so disconnected from the magic around her that there was probably little hope of rectifying the situation.

Her constant battle with her disorderly hair annoyed him so much that he'd cast a spell at her head almost before he'd thought it all the way through. Her short curls immediately flew out of her face and behind her ear, and she squeaked in surprise as her hands flew up to her head.

If she was frightened to turn and find the Dark Lord pointing his wand at her head, she did a much better job of hiding it than she had in the past. Tom was pleased; he had made more progress with the Mudblood in the past few weeks than he could have hoped for.

He sneered. "With all that studying you did at Hogwarts, I'm surprised you never bothered to look up any _practical_ spells so you wouldn't have to do things the Muggle way."

Her thoughts were a stranger mixture between disappointment that he was disappointed in her (which almost made him smile) and anger at that specific accusation.

Finally, she seemed to settle on stubborn anger. She raised her little nose in the air and, as though she were a famous lecturer addressing an audience, informed him, "There is nothing wrong with doing things the Muggle way. There is no need to be dependent on magic for every little thing."

"Are you a witch or are you a Muggle?" retorted Tom, his sneer deepening and his voice filling with derision.

"I'm a witch!" she exclaimed, clearly before she had thought it through.

It cost Tom no more than a tilt of his head to make her eyes go wide as she realized the tone she'd taken with him. He remained silent for a few moments longer to allow her to worry. Then, adopting a mocking version of her imperious tone, he declared, "Then you ought to fully embrace being a witch. You will gain no points from anyone by clinging to inefficient Muggle habits. Do you think that anyone important in our world would respect someone who stands out so obviously as a filthy Mudblood?"

Granger's lip began to tremble as soon as he used that word and her eyes watered, but she did not cry.

Tom held her expressive, hurt gaze with his own cold, fathomless eyes. "If you are so determined to live with one foot still in the Muggle world, then there is no excuse for you not to have figured out how I replicated money."

That clearly confused her, and she opened her mouth as if to demand that he explain, although she thought better of it before the words actually came out.

"What is it about Galleons and Knuts that keeps wizards from copying them, Granger?" he pressed, although he had no intention of waiting around for her to answer. His patience would not last anywhere near long enough for that, he knew. Therefore, he answered himself, "There are a number of enchantments the goblins place on their coins that make it nearly impossible to duplicate them or to create authentic-seeming counterfeits. But of course the magical world, goblin and wizard alike, is so wrapped up in itself that it overlooks one important thing: Muggles."

Her face lit up suddenly with the glow of comprehension. "You copied Muggle money and then you—you exchanged it for wizard money!"

"Of course not, Granger; I am not as sloppy as that. I copied Muggle currency and then exchanged my counterfeits in the Muggle world for another form of Muggle currency in order to ensure its legitimacy, and then I exchanged _that_ for wizard currency."

The Mudblood studied his face closely, as if she might be able to glean the answers to her questions in the contours of his nose or the angle of his jaw.

Finally, although it clearly pained her to do so, she admitted, "I don't understand what that has to do with whether the exception to Gamp's Law is accurate."

"It is a matter of creative problem solving, Granger. The main goal of duplicating money is to have more money. Most wizards and witches realize that they cannot successfully copy the Galleons in their pockets and conclude that it is an impossible goal. But it is not an impossible goal at all if one is willing to look outside the wizarding world's limited box in order to solve the problem. As with most so-called rules in the magical world, they only apply to the accepted parameters wizards have built for themselves and not to anything outside of that."

"And you don't think it's a bit hyp—" She paused for a few seconds and considered him thoroughly, as if she were debating whether to risk saying it, then marched on bravely as if she'd never paused at all. "—hypocritical to say that I shouldn't keep any Muggle habits, even though you use Muggles to get your own way?"

He smiled and allowed a laugh to escape, genuinely amused at her question. (Although he acknowledged that she was just as likely to have caught him in a mood where he would have eviscerated her for saying it, and therefore it was incredibly stupid of her). Her sharp intake of breath drew his attention back to her, only for him to find that she was studying his face with a peculiar furrow in her brow that he had never seen on her before. He unabashedly dipped into her thoughts.

"— _a grip, Hermione. You know that he's a devil, even if he smiles like an angel._ "

Another laugh escaped his throat. He realized that it must have been the first time he had ever genuinely smiled in her presence, as opposed to the mocking, cold smiles he sometimes gave people he wanted to intimidate.

" _Just think what he's done to your—"_ She abruptly derailed her entire train of thought and tore her attention away from his lips to meet his gaze in wide-eyed horror. _"Oh God! He caught me looking! Oh God, he's laughing! Does he know what I'm thinking? How could he know?"_

Tom did not laugh again, but it was a near thing. Instead he allowed his full lips to curve even further over his straight teeth.

"It's called Legilimency, Mudblood. It is an obscure branch of magic, very difficult to master and mostly illegal to use, so I am not surprised you have never read about it in your Hogwarts-approved textbooks."

Her face was red with mortification and not a little righteous indignation at his intrusion on her privacy, but she managed to ask, "Is that how you would… do those things you said?"

"Yes," he replied immediately, knowing that she was referring to his threats to make her live out her worst nightmares or to strip her of her intelligence.

He offered another smile, this one a cruel mockery of the one she had so admired, and she looked down at her lap, her cheeks flaming.

"As for your question, it is not hypocritical at all. I despise Mudbloods who hold onto the most useless parts of their prior lives while flailing around the magical world without any true connection to magic itself. I equally despise those who are raised in the magical world and never question anything around them, holding on so single-mindedly to the notion that nothing exists outside of the narrow box they've built for themselves. Each side ought to embrace every part of the magic and knowledge available to us—and, of course, use every advantage we have—and dispose of the useless habits and ideas that hold us back."

He could see that she was mulling over his words just as intensely as he had hoped. He was glad; he did not care about her immediate reactions but rather wanted her to seriously consider what he had said. Tom was sure that it would only bring her further into his web. Hermione Granger might like to think of herself as a Gryffindor Goody Two-Shoes, but he had forced enough tales of broken rules and illegal potions (and stolen ingredients) out of her to know that her mind and morals bent just as far as she was able to justify things to herself.

And she would bend to his will, or else he would send her frizzy head to Potter via owl post.

With a smirk that he knew she could not see with her head bowed so low, he said, "However, none of that is why I came here today. Were you aware that today is September fifth?"

She looked up with enormous brown eyes and a chin quivering with the knowledge that she had been his prisoner for the entire summer and was now missing school. "Oh."

"Indeed," replied Tom. "They have noticed you are missing."

He could see the light of fierce determination and hope come on again in her eyes. He hadn't seen the likes of that since her first few weeks as his prisoner. He smiled, a cruel and mocking smile this time instead of the genuine one that apparently made him look like an angel.

"I knew you would think that they'll come for you," he told her in a pleasant tone that was completely at odds with the promise of pain in his expression. "That's why I wanted to share the article in the _Daily Prophet_ with you."

It was a short article that took up less than one-sixth of a page of the newspaper and was wedged between an article about parchment thickness and an advertisement for Sleakeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment.

> _Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has reported to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that a third-year student, Hermione Granger, is missing. Miss Granger, a Muggle-born Gryffindor and reportedly the best friend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, neither returned to Hogwarts on September first nor withdrew from the school. The headmaster has urged the Ministry to investigate her apparent disappearance._
> 
> _In response to the headmaster's concerns, Gerald Savage, a senior officer in the Auror's Investigation Department, explained to this reporter that, "Truancy is not a concern of the DMLE. If you ask me, either Miss Granger decided that she was happier with her own kind in the Muggle world, or there was some sort of Muggle accident over the summer, maybe one of those dangerous airplanes or guns. Either way, it isn't our concern."_
> 
> _An airplane is a long metal tube Muggles stuff themselves inside to try to fly without magic. A gun is a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other._

When she read the article, Hermione, who had not cried at all up to that point, finally allowed a few tears to leak from her eyes. Tom was inordinately pleased with this result.

"You see how much the wizarding world cares about Mudbloods," he told her quite casually, as if he were discussing the merits of the article on parchment thickness. "There's no mention of your accomplishments, or of anything about you except that you're a Muggle and were friends with the Boy Who Lived. The Ministry doesn't care that you and your parents have been missing for months, and neither does anybody else judging by the size and placement of the article. Although you'll notice that a pure-blood student's injury takes up almost the entire front page…."

A sob escaped her throat at that point, and she brought her hands up to cover her eyes.

"Please stop," she begged.

"Perhaps you ought to put some of that original thinking we've been talking about to use and consider why you care so much about protecting a bunch of narrow-minded fools who don't know anything about magic beyond what the Ministry tells them they can know and who don't even care about protecting you in return," he told her seriously.

Then, with a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he gracefully swept out of the cottage and sealed the wards behind him. He had no illusions that the article would make her convert to his way of thinking, but he was quite pleased to be laying the various pieces of groundwork that he hoped would lead to the results he wanted in a few months. Now he only needed his other self to return and play his part in the production, and he was sure that Hermione Granger would eventually fall at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Citation: The line about what a gun is was taken from the article about Sirius that Stan Shunpike shows Harry in Prisoner of Azkaban, Chapter Three, "The Knight Bus."
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes: We're finally getting into how Tom's presence and the things he's done are changing the events and plots of canon. I'm very excited to get to this stage of the story.
> 
> Thank you for any reviews, favorites, and follows. I particularly appreciate the reviews, and if you have favorited and followed then I would love to know why.


	14. Bending. Breaking.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans begin to take on more solid shape, and Tom experiences a loss of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that this took so long, especially because previously you’d all been used to an update every week or so. I have a huge licensing exam coming up at the end of the month, and after that I will have two months or so completely free, and I plan to finish writing most of this story. That way, even when I officially start work near the beginning of October, I will hopefully have enough of this written that I can keep posting regularly until it’s done.

“This is it?” Tom eyed the dim row house and didn’t bother to mask the disdain in his voice. Just based on Walburga Black’s attitude when he’d known the older girl at Hogwarts, he had supposed her to live in a grand mansion with golden columns and gilded statues.

Narcissa’s pale cheeks flushed a bit in indignation and embarrassment. She opened her mouth as if to respond, but as soon as she met Tom’s gaze she snapped her lips closed and looked down again. Although she still showed occasional sparks of defiance, her visit to Tom’s office seemed to have scared some actual sense into her. She had only recently been able to control the lingering tremors from his prolonged use of the Cruciatus Curse, and apparently the memory of it was enough to make her think twice about provoking him further.

He was happy to follow her up the front steps in silence. Tom had never understood the need most people seemed to have to fill a silence—he was as annoyed now by purposeless talking as he had been by the chatter of the other children at the orphanage when he was boy. And he had no desire at all to talk to Narcissa Malfoy about anything. He wouldn’t have even brought her along at all, if she hadn’t assured him that only a Black could enter the house.

Tom was sure that he could have broken into the house himself, eventually, but there was no reason to put in the time and effort necessary to break ancient wards when he had a Black available, even one he could hardly stand to be around.

Other than the thick cloud of dust that enveloped them when they stepped into the narrow entrance hall, which sent them both into an undignified coughing fit, and a hideous umbrella stand that appeared to have been made from a troll’s lower leg, there was nothing of particular note on the ground floor besides a hideous portrait of an older woman. Tom barely credited it as what the previously-beautiful Walburga Black might have looked like if the intervening fifty years since their shared youth hadn’t been kind to her at all.

“WHO’S THERE?” shrieked the painted woman, her eyes rolling in her head as if she might be able to see sideways beyond the borders of her frame.

The caterwauling stopped almost immediately when Narcissa stepped into the portrait’s line of sight. “Hello, Aunt Walburga.”

“Cissy,” replied the portrait, clearly warring with itself between relief and annoyance, “how long has it been since you visited me?”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Walbur—” began her niece, but Tom did not have the patience for any such nonsense.

“It’s a portrait, not your aunt,” he interrupted harshly as he mounted the last few stairs himself. Narcissa moved out of his way immediately, and the woman in the frame looked as if she was ready to begin shrieking again until she recognized him suddenly and froze with her mouth half opened and a look of horror in her painted black eyes.

“ _Riddle_?” she finally asked.

Tom stared back impassively, as he had resigned himself to people who used to know him reacting in exactly that way. “Do you know anything about a locket your traitor son stole from me?”

Walburga’s portrait reared backwards, as far away from him as her painted surroundings would allow her to go, but she didn’t answer. Tom could feel a sharp tingling thrumming through his being and knew that a fellow Horcrux was close by, and it was making him even more impatient than usual. He raised his wand up to the canvas, not quite touching, and cast a spell to keep the woman from leaving the frame. Of course he didn’t need to use his wand for such things, but he had found that most magical people were so inept at wandless magic that only the actual sight of a wand could properly frighten them.

Managing to keep his outward veneer of calm, he asked again, “What do you know?”

“It _was_ you! You—you _are_ Him!” she cried instead. “You killed my Regulus! YOU KILLED MY SON!”

The tip of his wand sizzled with magic, and the oil paint mere centimeters from Walburga Black’s face began to melt. She shrieked, more in terror than in rage, when she realized that she couldn’t leave the portrait and escape the flames.

“What. Do. You. Know?” he repeated, letting his irritation show through and barking every word. Salazar, how he hated repeating himself!

She cowered against her frame as her portrait disintegrated, eyes rolling in fear as canvas began to burn right next to her.

“KREACHER!” she finally yelled out, and for a moment Tom thought that she was calling him a creature and was disappointed at her lack of inventiveness. Then a house-elf Apparated into existence next to him and, after taking in the sight of Tom attacking the portrait, started screeching too, increasing the volume in the cramped stairwell by double at least as Walburga shouted over him, “KREACHER KNOWS SOMETHING! I KNOW HE DOES!”

Tom tilted his head to consider the distraught house-elf and raised his wand just out of reach of the canvas, and Walburga sagged in relief against the edge of her portrait. The house-elf’s bloodshot eyes looked between the portrait and Tom in absolute terror, finally focusing in on Tom’s blood-red eyes and the magical energy barely controlled beneath his false skin.

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” it cried pitifully, collapsing to its knees on a rickety step. “It’s _Him_! Oh, poor Master Regulus!”

“What about Regulus?” demanded Tom in a high voice, turning his full attention and his wand on the pathetic little creature. “What do you know?”

The elf’s ears flattened back against its head in agitation, little tufts of white hair sticking up at odd angles at the movement. “Kreacher knows nothing!”

“He does!” protested Walburga, eyes still darting warily between the scorched and melted parts of her portrait and the tip of Tom’s wand. “He would never tell me what secret my son swore him to keep, but I knew! A mother knows!”

Kreacher keened in pain and bent over so low that his nose pressed into the moldy carpet. “Kreacher knows nothing!”

“We don’t have any authority to force it out of him,” reminded Narcissa, her lips pressed together in extreme disapproval at Tom’s actions. “My cousin Sirius is his rightful owner.”

 _Oh, for Salazar’s sake_ , thought Tom, and he could barely suppress the desire to roll his eyes heavenward. Then, without warning, he struck.

He’d never been inside a house-elf’s mind before, and he definitely did not want to repeat the experience if he could help it. It resembled the mind of somebody who had been placed under the Imperius Curse, except that instead of the compulsion of the curse creating a sort of fog over the true mind, the house-elf’s compulsion was a _part_ of its mind, weaved inextricably in amongst its thoughts and synapses. Still, there was nothing stopping Tom from accessing what he wanted to see, even if it was clear from the inky Dark magic suffusing the memories that the house-elf was under orders not to willingly reveal them.

_A handsome face smiling down at him, full of pride… The paper-thin skin covering Lord Voldemort’s skull stretching grotesquely as he grinned, forcing another mouthful of potion down Tom’s throat… Burning! Oh, the horrible, excruciating burning that worked its way down his esophagus and to the tips of his fingers and toes… Regulus Black’s handsome face sick with panic and regret… Tom’s crippling grief as he watched his poor young master struggle against dead arms, knowing there was nothing he could do as Regulus disappeared beneath the opaque black surface of the lake… Home. He had to go home… Master Orion wasting away from grief, and his dear mistress’s tears as she too succumbed… A heavy gold locket that oozed the same terrible magic that had stolen Master Regulus’s life…_

Tom staggered down a step as he wrenched himself out of the filthy mess of the house-elf’s mind. He felt the fear and pain and grief lingering in his own body like an inky black tar he couldn’t wash off his skin. It was absolutely disgusting. He hadn’t even realized that he’d raised his wand until the brilliant flash of green light lit up the dark stairwell and the house-elf crumpled at his feet and slid down a few steps until coming to rest just underneath its mistress’s portrait.

Narcissa and Walburga both looked at him in censure and not a little surprise. In Narcissa’s case, his still-open mind easily picked up that her surprise was not due to his having killed the despicable thing but rather was because he’d cast the Killing Curse completely nonverbally. He obviously couldn’t read a portrait’s mind, but from the pinched looked on Walburga’s painted face he assumed that she was just upset he’d killed her only constant companion.

He dismissed both women’s feelings as utterly unimportant and began to climb the stairs as soon as he’d regained his equilibrium. Grimmauld Place was so diffuse with Dark magic that it had seeped into the very structure of the walls themselves. Even with his innate connection to the other Horcrux, he would have had a hard time pinpointing its location in such a mess, and he was happy to confirm that, impatient or not, his decision to invade the house-elf’s mind had been the right one. He knew just which drawer in which cabinet in the first-floor drawing room to look in for his locket—well, Voldemort’s locket, as he’d stolen it after Tom had been made, but it was _Tom’s_ locket now.

It was an ugly thing, truly, all bulk and no elegance at all. But he could feel his own familiar essence combined with his own Dark magic seeping into every molecule of gold, and he felt somehow more whole when he put the locket around his neck. The ring went a bit insane when he did it, and he thought that the Horcrux in the graveyard was probably throwing a tantrum and destroying everything around him (never mind that it didn’t stay destroyed so there was no point). He would have to deal with that later.

Grimmauld Place proved to be full of other interesting Dark artifacts as well, and Tom was perfectly happen to entertain the thought of them now that he had another precious piece of his soul secured on his person. He selected a few of the most interesting-looking texts that he knew the Malfoy library didn’t contain and stowed a couple of particularly rare items in his robes under the disapproving eye of Narcissa Malfoy, but in truth he was far too eager to interact with the locket to begin any sort of meticulous investigation into the ancient houses’s nooks and crannies, so they returned to Malfoy Manor soon after recovering his Horcrux.

He didn’t bother explaining himself to Narcissa or Lucius, who had been anxiously waiting for them to return with a stack of papers obviously meant for Tom’s eyes, before making his way to his bedroom. Lord Voldemort did not need to explain himself to anybody, and whatever Lucius needed to bring to his attention could wait until after he’d done what he needed to do.

He slid the ring off first, which caused it to erupt into such a riotous display of aggressive energy that Tom’s lips quirked up into a rare genuine smile. It landed with a heavy clink against the fine, polished ebony of his bedside table. Then it was the work of but a moment to allow himself to slide into the dizzying maze of his own mind and emerge through the oppressive darkness into the Horcrux’s.

The first thing he noticed was that he was back in the cave where the locket ought to have been safely hidden. The next thing he noticed was the soul fragment itself staring at him with wide, red eyes in a bone-white face.

“You were made _here_?” he asked somewhat incredulously.

Because honestly, he had never considered the cave anywhere near that important, and he was having a hard time understanding exactly what had happened in the span of four or five years to make his other self’s way of thinking so drastically different from his own. Was it just due to the creation of Hocruxes in itself?

“Yes,” replied the Horcrux, and it was difficult for Tom to look at it, because its face looked so much like his own and yet not, especially when it moved. “Which one are you?”

“The first,” informed Tom with some inexplicable well of pride and a handsome grin that his nineteen-year-old self had obviously lost.

Then he exerted the will of his own mind over the Horcrux’s, because he did not have time to cultivate a relationship with yet another version of himself and thought it was probably the case that it was weaker than the ring and wouldn’t be able to defend itself against him anyway, and he was almost never mistaken about anything. Not even when he desperately hoped he was wrong.

* * *

When he eventually met with Lucius and Mulciber later that evening, Tom had to expend a significant amount of focus in order to care about what they had to say. It wasn’t that the information they had to share was not worth his while—indeed, it was all very good information!—but rather it was that Tom was distracted by the confirmation of what he had long since suspected about his other self’s mental deterioration. He had been able to take everything he’d wanted from the locket Horcrux’s mind without much in the way of meaningful resistance.

“The other governors are embarrassed,” Mulciber was informing him, and, marshalling his unrivaled self-control, he tried to pay better attention. “This whole mess with the half-breed has exposed exactly how little power the governors can actually exert over Hogwarts, and the public is questioning what good they actually do.”

Lucius nodded his assent. “Unfortunately, I think it will do little good to attempt to give the board of governors more control or to oust Dumbledore so long as he is still the presiding member of the Wizengamot and has so much popular sway. In the past, he has been allowed to remain and make his own arguments whenever school board issues have been brought before the Wizengamot, and when Dumbledore speaks he has the ability to make people who had thought something was unreasonable suddenly see things his way.”

Tom didn’t bother to hide his scowl. When Tom had been a student, Headmaster Dippet had been easy enough for him to influence, but Dumbledore had often been able to change his mind again even after Tom had thought he’d gotten what he wanted.

“If you will allow me, My Lord,” continued Lucius, “I would suggest that we need to plan a specific series of attacks to systematically dismantle Dumbledore’s power.”

Tom liked to hear anything that had to do with stripping Dumbledore of power. The stories surrounding the attack on Draco in Care of Magical Creatures had caused an uproar in wizarding Britain, and Tom could feel that they were on the cusp of being able to mold the events into something great. They were so close to Dumbledore’s throat that he could almost taste the old warlock’s blood.

“What would you suggest?” he asked easily, because he was nothing if not perfectly aware of his own strengths and those of his followers. He mostly had strengths and no weaknesses of his own, of course, but even he had to admit that his extraordinary brilliance and power lent themselves better to ruling by force than to ruling by diplomacy, and that his captivating charisma was better suited to drawing followers into his web than to navigating the intricacies of Ministry politics.

On the other hand, Lucius Malfoy was a master at political intrigues and Ministry bureaucracy, which was one reason why Tom hadn’t disposed of him in a fit of rage yet. And undoubtedly it was how he had managed to crawl his way into Voldemort’s good graces in the first place.

“We should push forward the hearing to determine the hippogriff’s fate; it isn’t scheduled until the beginning of next month, but I think I can persuade them to have it as early as next week. Once we have a legal determination that it is in fact danger to people, I will pursue a personal injury lawsuit on behalf of my son against the giant, the headmaster, and Hogwarts itself, because as long as Dumbledore is a party to my lawsuit before the Wizengamot, he will not be allowed to participate in any related matters. It is the only way I can think of to force him not to participate in the Wizengamot hearings."

Muciber sat forward eagerly in his leather chair. “With him out of the way, I’ll persuade the other governors to submit new legislation to the Wizengamot giving the board of governors ultimate power over hiring decisions.”

“I will also convince Fudge to enact some Ministerial decrees on the subject,” added Lucius. “They likely would not be upheld if challenged, but that isn’t the point—the point is just to apply as much pressure as we can from as many different fronts as possible.”

Tom sat back in his enormous chair and allowed his wand, which had been spinning slowly atop one of his fingers, to fall neatly back into his palm.

“You have been discussing this without me,” he declared quietly. Malfoy and Mulciber’s eyes were both riveted to his wand, and he could almost hear their hearts thumping in their chests. “Why are you so worried? Surely you know that Lord Voldemort rewards followers who take the initiative to further his plans. That is why you have been making plans, is it not?”

Mulciber swallowed visibly and nodded his head, but he did not seem able to speak.

Although Tom could see Malfoy’s knuckles whitening as he clutched the arms of his chair, he managed to say in a level tone, “Of course, My Lord. We thought only of how we could use our expertise in this area to achieve your goals.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Tom replied in the same tone. To belay his deliberate calmness, he began to twirl his wand in his customary manner when contemplating whether he ought to use it. “I know that neither of you would conspire to betray me.”

He could read in their thoughts, of course, that neither of them _had_ been acting to betray him when they’d met to discuss how to handle the Dumbledore situation. In fact, they had both been extremely eager to be able to present him with a solid plan. That is why he thought it best to outwardly praise their efforts while still implicitly encouraging their terror at the idea of what he would do to them if he thought they’d been planning anything against him. Or what he would do to them if it turned out that the advice they’d given him went awry.

After he was satisfied with the sick fear permeating both of their minds, Tom broke the deathly silence that had fallen around the room. “Richard, you must find time to thoroughly examine and catalogue the contents of Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Malfoy will have to accompany you, due to the protections on the house, but I trust that you will not allow her to interfere.”

“Yes, My Lord,” assured Mulciber immediately, although he spared a brief sideways glance in Malfoy’s direction, clearly wondering why Narcissa couldn’t handle it herself since he was already so busy with various other tasks.

“Good. Just remember that you must work quickly, in case Sirius Black decides to make use of the place and tightens the protections. Additionally,” he addressed to both of them, “it is time for you to gather any rumors or other information regarding my other self’s location.”

With that, and with a careless flick of his hand, Tom dismissed the other man, who immediately executed a perfect bow and turned to leave the room despite his tremendous curiosity. As soon as he’d gone, Tom turned his attention to Malfoy. He had considered humiliating Lucius in front of his fellow Death Eater, but ultimately he had concluded that Lucius would not be anywhere near as effective at his job if he wasn’t respected by his fellows, and furthermore a humiliated Lucius was likely not a productive Lucius. Just like a frightened Draco was not a productive Draco. These Malfoys really were a horribly sensitive lot.

“Of course I do not trust you to work with your wife, Lucius,” he told the blond man mockingly. “I barely trust that the two of you aren’t conspiring to betray me when you’re alone here at the manor, even when I know that the only thing on your mind is to fuck her.”

Lucius flushed in mingled embarrassment and anger, but he smartly did not protest what Tom had said. Although it clearly cost him dearly, he managed to mutter, “I understand, My Lord.”

“Of course you do,” said Tom, who somehow managed to keep his expression neutral and straight. “Now, I find that I need you to ensure that Draco will be able to leave the school for a visit, and the sooner the better.”

“Draco, My Lord?”

Tom began to idly twirl his wand again. “Yes. The reason for the visit is irrelevant—to go over his testimony with the barrister, for a final check of his wounds by his Healers, or whatever else you come up with, it matters not to me—but I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Lucius, clearly displeased, pursed his lips together and nonetheless attempted a neutral tone. “May I ask why, My Lord? Draco has already missed more school than he ought to have.”

“You may not,” Tom informed him harshly. “Have the visit take place on a weekend for all I care, Lucius, but I will see him.”

The apprehension and discomfort that cloaked Malfoy like a death shroud went a long way towards lightening Tom’s mood. For that reason alone, he had absolutely no intention of informing Lucius that the only reason he needed to see Draco was so that the boy could deliver a package to him. Not that he would have informed Lucius of his purpose in the absence of such entertainment value, given that the last time the older Malfoys had been directly involved in his plan to obtain one of the Horcruxes, it had been spectacularly thwarted.

* * *

As Tom removed the locket from around his neck and replaced the ring on his finger, he steeled himself for a confrontation the likes of which he had never experienced before. He could feel the malevolent rage pouring off of the ring as if it were a tangible thing in his bedroom with him, and he knew that it did not bode well for his meeting with the Horcrux.

Indeed, almost as soon as his bare feet came into contact with the long, cool grass of the Little Hangleton graveyard, the Horcrux dug his fingers into Tom’s upper arms with such force that he was sure he would have been severely bruised if it had happened outside of their minds. And if his body were more than a magical construction for no other purpose than to house his soul.

“Did you enjoy your meeting without me?” demanded the Horcrux harshly. “I suppose he’s more to your liking, since he knows more about Lord Voldemort’s plans than I do.”

Tom reached up and began to straighten the Horcrux’s clothes as if nothing at all were the matter.

“The locket?” he asked nonchalantly. “Of course not. He treated me like a child.”

That seemed to stymie the Horcrux, and he exhaled a surprised breath, although he didn’t release his death grip on Tom’s arms.

Tom allowed an exasperated expression to cross briefly over his face. “I just thought it would be better if he didn’t suddenly have two of us interrogating him. Honestly, stop being so paranoid.”

“ _Paranoid_?” echoed the Horcrux, clearly offended. He took a step closer until their noses were a hairsbreadth from pressing together. “You. Are. Mine. You are not to be without me again.”

Internally, Tom wanted to shove his other self away and inform him that if anybody owned anyone else, then clearly _he_ owned the Horcrux. After all, he wore the Horcrux like an ornament on his finger, not the other way around. Externally, he kept his expression the same and curled his arms around the Horcrux’s waist, leaning forward the short distance between them to press a somewhat less-than-chaste kiss to the other boy’s pursed lips.

“I don’t _want_ to be without you, Tom.”

It was the first time he had ever called the Horcrux by name, and it apparently had a profound effect. The Horcrux smashed their lips together violently and released his arms only long enough to tangle one hand in Tom's hair and wrap the other around his hips to grab a handful of his ass. Tom allowed a moan to escape from somewhere deep inside him and opened his mouth willingly to the invasion. He had long since known what he would have to do to complete this ruse, and he had suspected even before putting the ring back on his finger that now would be the time it was expected of him. After all, the Horcrux’s anger and feelings of possession could only have led them to one result.

Their clothes were removed in a flurry of ripping fabric and dangerously imprecise Vanishing Charms, and Tom did his best to lose himself in the moment and not let his reluctance become obvious as the Horcrux’s cold hands explored his bare skin. Only after the Horcrux had released Tom’s nipple from between his teeth and forcefully shoved Tom over onto his stomach did Tom allow his mask of lust to slip off his face. He crossed his arms underneath his head and buried himself face down in them so that the Horcrux couldn’t see his expression, but he allowed his body to be manipulated further and did his best to stay relaxed and seemingly willing.

He didn’t flinch at the whisper of magic against that one part of his body that had never been touched. Not even when the Horcrux’s icy fingers pressed inside of him more roughly than he would have liked—if he’d admitted to any preference at all regarding such matters—did he allow himself to tense or struggle against the intrusion. He had long since prepared himself mentally, and what good was his body if not to submit to his own ironclad will?

If his will was that he submit his body physically to the Horcrux, well then, he would just have to hold it together until a more appropriate time to rebel.

It felt strange to have cold, long fingers forced inside of him, although the lubrication spell the Horcrux had been kind enough to provide eased the way. It couldn't protect him from the uncomfortable pain when the Horcrux added another finger and spread them apart, forcing Tom's tight muscles to stretch and give way.

"You heal almost as soon as I can stretch your ass open," informed the Horcrux, his dirty words matched only by his filthy tone. "I'm sure this will hurt you more than I'd thought, but I can't say I'm not glad--you'll have the tightest hole I've ever fucked."

He punctuated his words with a rough jab of all three fingers inside at once, and they made a horrible squelching noise as he removed them and thrust them inside again. Tom couldn't blame him for being aroused by the whole thing, as he had found such things incredibly arousing when he had taken Rastaban Lestrange and his other male lovers, but he felt very differently about it when he was the one being subjected to such treatment. He could feel the Horcrux's hard cock brushing against the back of one of his thighs, and he had to fight not to tense up.

Then one of the Horcrux’s hands gripped his hip roughly, and the other ghosted up his spine, leaving a trail of lubrication that had been heated by Tom's own body in its wake, until the fingers spread, large and cool, between his shoulder blades and shoved his upper body more firmly into the ground. Despite his valiant efforts, Tom couldn’t stay completely still, and he unfolded one of his arms and reached back blindly until he came into contact with the smooth skin and soft hair of the Horcrux’s thigh. The muscles flexed underneath his fingers as Tom felt the large, blunt head of the Horcrux’s cock get situated tightly against the cleft of his ass, not yet breaching him but pressing firmly against the natural resistance of his body. He breathed in deeply through his nose, concentrating on the sweet scent of earth and magic and death, and the feeling of the long grass tickling his nostrils and upper lip.

But he kept his eyes open. He was not weak, and he would not scrunch his eyes closed like he had seen Rastaban and his few other conquests do.

When the Horcrux finally pushed inside him, the large head popping inside and making them both groan for different reasons, it was without much fuss and with less pain than Tom had anticipated. Of course, he had experienced the excruciating, soul-wrenching, seemingly never-ending pain of being torn away from the rest of his soul and magically encapsulated in a diary, and he had purposefully burned and cut and maimed himself in the name of research, so he really ought not to have been surprised that the pain of having a dick shoved roughly up his ass was nothing he couldn’t handle.

His reluctance was all psychological, nothing more.

“Mmm, yes, it is,” the Horcrux said hoarsely as he sharply adjusted his hips, and Tom realized that he had allowed his mental barriers to fall enough that his surface thoughts were clearly readable. He slammed the gates of his mind as tightly closed as he could manage, glad that he’d realized it before the Horcrux had been able to read anything deeper and much more dangerous.

It was difficult, though, to keep his mind closed when his body burned with the dull ache of his constantly-healing muscles being stretched almost anew every time the Horcrux withdrew and slammed back in violently, or when he began to feel a frisson of pleasure from someplace inside him whenever the Horcrux roughly rubbed against it with every thrust.

Almost unconsciously, he shifted his hips to seek out more of that feeling, and a ragged moan escaped unbidden from his throat when on the next inward thrust the Horcrux seemed to connect with some magical center of pleasure that he’d never quite believed existed even when Rastaban had begged him to fuck that one spot harder, faster, more please.

The Horcrux laughed, and without being able to see his expression, Tom couldn’t tell if it was more out of delight or cruelty.

“Shut up!” demanded Tom, and the Horcrux laughed again.

But Tom didn’t have the mental wherewithal to protest again as the Horcrux let his magic radiate off of his body, and the exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure was too much for Tom to handle. Merlin, the magic… It felt like the addictive bliss he had experienced when Voldemort’s curse on the ring had interacted with his own magic, except that now the magic was physically _inside of him_ and battering against every shred of resistance he had as the Horcrux rhythmically pounded away at his tender body.

“Yes, yesssss…” he hissed, slipping into Parseltongue quite without his own say so.

He released his own magic, partly because he wanted to and partly because he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and felt the crackle of it over his body like electricity. The Horcrux nearly screamed and came to a halt halfway inside of Tom, his entire body shivering and sparking with magic as he collapsed against Tom’s back. Tom felt the heavy cock inside of him twitch and the tight muscles of the Horcrux's thigh contract and release in an uncontrollable spasm.

Tom hissed again and pressed back against the Horcrux until the globes of his ass were pressed tightly against the Horcrux's sharp hip bones and he'd taken as much of the Horcrux's dick inside of himself as possible. Merlin, the magic felt amazing that deep in his body, and he couldn't even bring himself to feel ashamed of the way he was rutting when it felt so good. Using his hand, still wrapped around the Horcrux’s thigh, he tried to spur him on.

“Don’t stop, you idiot!”

The Horcrux groaned again and choked out, also in Parseltongue, “I won’t.”

Tom would have had something more to say, except that their mutual moans and sighs as their magic mingled over and through them was more than enough to express how he thought it felt. It _hurt_ , but in such an exquisite way, like shocks of magical electricity stimulating his body from both the outside and within, and he couldn’t have maintained control now any more than he’d been able to maintain control when he had been writhing on the floor of the library in Malfoy Manor. The Horcrux was seemingly experiencing the same thing, because his formerly controlled movements, calculated to hurt and humiliate and possess Tom, were now erratic and calculated to do nothing more than ensure his own pleasure. Which fortunately also insured Tom’s, so he wasn’t complaining, even though under any other circumstances he probably _would_ have felt humiliated by the way the Horcrux’s cold, clammy skin slid erotically against his own slick, hot back and the Horcrux’s balls slapped noisily against his own every time he slammed harshly inside.

In the part of his mind that could still process anything beyond their mingled pleasure and pain, he was actually horrified by the freezing cold spurt of cum deep inside of him and the Horcrux’s groan of possessive satisfaction against his ear. But then the Horcrux gripped Tom’s cock roughly with magic-sparked fingers, and he was able to fully lose himself in the combination of the cool touch and powerful energy. He allowed himself to find his own release, completely losing any semblance of control in the overload of sensations his entire body was experiencing.

He was never able to come back down to earth, as it were, before his mind was viciously invaded and he felt, for the second time in his life, the beginnings of his soul being torn away from his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. 
> 
> As always, I deeply appreciate your comments, bookmarks, and kudos. They make me feel very guilty for not being able to post a new chapter every single day, but they also make me work on this story even when I don't really have the time.


	15. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed and information is exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have Tumblr for the first time. Please join me on there if you like, and if you have a fandom-related blog, or one for another fandom I like besides HP, then I will follow you back (unless you're always posting about H/G or the Weasleys or something, in which case I can't make any promises). I plan to give updates on where I am in the writing process and perhaps non-spoilery sneak peaks, if people are interested, and I know that some readers have liked to ask me questions or have discussions. Plus, you know, lots of reposts of fan art and other fic recommendations and the like. My name is ChapterEightFF.

"You must learn to forgive yourself, my lady," Tom told the young woman, carefully crafting his voice to reflect the perfect amount of sympathy and knowing.

"Forgive myself?" she demanded in a hard voice that was at least an octave higher than usual. "How could I forgive myself, after what has happened?"

Tom took a step closer and raised his hands as if he were going to hold hers. He paused within inches of touching her, of course, and under her sharp gaze he allowed his cheeks to color and a small, sad smile to pass over his handsome lips. When he spoke, his voice was full of longing and regret. "You mustn't conflate the two events. Yes, you were wrong to take what was not yours, but your desires were perfectly understandable. Your mother understood, and she forgave you. None of that makes your death your fault."

Her full lips quivered under her strong, long nose, and Tom wondered if ghosts could actually cry. She brought her spectral hands up to caress his, which were still hovering uselessly where he had made a show of trying to comfort her earlier, and he resisted the urge to shiver at the feeling. It felt like he'd dunked his hands into the frozen lake outside.

At last, in a small voice, she asked, "Do you really think it was understandable?"

"It is to me, at least," he asserted at once. "Other people—people without natural talents like yours, my lady—would not understand. They would likely call it selfish, but that is only because their minds can't grasp the possibilities that motivated you."

"And you can," she said, a statement and not a question. She pulled her hands away, and for a dreadful moment Tom thought that he had gone too far. Then she smiled, just a small one that was still full of grief and regret, but all the same was the first one he had ever managed to coax out of her in the long weeks he'd been visiting her. "I always wondered why you wanted to find my mother's diadem. I have heard about you around the school, you know, and I know that you do not need the diadem to enhance your wisdom."

This time, the color rose unbidden to Tom's cheeks. He replied, "I cannot lie to you and say that I am not curious about wearing it, but that is not why I wanted to find it. I want to bring all of the Founders' creations back together again, where they belong, and where they can benefit Hogwarts and everybody who passes through these halls. Forgive me, my lady, I know that it is painful for you, but surely you agree that they never should have been taken away from here?"

It was only a half-truth, of course. Tom did want to bring all of the Founders' objects back together again, but he wanted to do so for his own benefit and not to reunite them at Hogwarts.

"It is painful, yes, but perhaps you are right that I ought to learn to start forgiving myself," mused the ghost. "I think that having my mother's diadem returned to Hogwarts would be a good first step."

"Helena, maybe I was wrong to ask. You don't have to—" Tom began to protest, because he knew that she would respect him all the more if he did.

She interrupted him by placing her ice-cold hand on his cheek, although of course it mostly went through him and made his face feel frostbitten. "No, you were right to ask. My mother would have wanted her diadem returned to the school that she worked so hard to build."

She paused for a moment, floating a few paces away. Once she had gathered herself, Helena Ravenclaw looked at Tom Riddle with trust in her eyes and told him what he wanted to know.

"The place I fled, with the magical, untamed forests that you so enjoyed in my stories, was in southeastern Albania…."

* * *

Tom pulled himself free of the memory with a deep inhalation of breath and rolled his neck until it cracked and released the tension held there. The locket Horcrux's mental faculties, including his memories, had been far too corrupted for Tom to have gotten more than some brief glimpses, but the ring Horcrux's mind had been more than well enough intact to fill in many of the blanks. He exhaled the breath and opened his eyes. The Horcrux was sprawled naked on top of their father's grave, where Tom had left him, and he was staring up at Tom in a mixture of horror and incredible anger.

"Ah, Tom," he addressed the other boy mockingly, allowing a cruel smirk to curl his lips, "I should have known that you would never have told me the whole truth."

The Horcrux glared up at him in hatred. "You risked your body just to get information out of me?"

"Of course not," Tom replied condescendingly. "I had to know whether you _could_ possess my body, because if you could then Lord Voldemort certainly could. In that case it wouldn't have mattered whether you did it now or he did it later, so I had nothing to lose. Although I was confident that I'm the stronger between the two of us and could fight you off, even if it had turned out to be possible in theory for you to possess me."

"So you've been planning this since the beginning." The Horcrux looked even more furious than before. Tom knew that he was not taking it very well that he had been played so perfectly.

Tom laughed, a true laugh from the center of his belly that echoed off all of the headstones in the dark graveyard.

"Yes, of course," he said when he'd finished. "I realized right away that you had no sense of the outside world, of what I was doing or of time or of anything else, and so I used it to my advantage and all the while allowed you to think that you were the one playing me."

The Horcrux exhaled sharply. "So there was never any attack, with the basilisk venom?"

"No. I was just experimenting on you."

They stared at one another, Tom's grin stretching further across his face and the anger in the Horcrux's eyes attempting to burn its way through him.

When he'd tired of the staring contest, Tom informed the Horcrux, "The only thing left to decide now is whether I want to keep you for myself or give you to Voldemort."

The Horcrux leapt to his feet, and Tom admired his body even as the Horcrux stalked towards him. It was the height of vanity, he knew, but he couldn't get over how well the Horcrux looked. Besides, there was absolutely nothing threatening about a naked man with his bits dangling in the air. Or at least there was nothing threatening about it _to him_ , although he well remembered Lucius Malfoy licking the floor at his feet when he'd been standing completely nude in his room at Malfoy Manor.

The Horcrux stopped directly in front of Tom, trying to use his barely-there height advantage to be more intimidating. "You said that you wanted to find the Horcruxes so that you could hide them from Voldemort. Was that a lie, too?"

"No, that wasn't a lie," replied Tom, quite easily, "but I never said I wanted to hide them, necessarily. And the more I've learned about my own reaction to other Horcruxes, the more I think that I ought to just wear you all on my person when I go to meet him. That way he can't destroy me without destroying all of his Horcruxes at once."

Tom thought the way that the Horcrux's jaw clenched just the slightest amount was very attractive. Perhaps he ought to stand in front of a mirror and practice looking at his own facial expressions, as he'd done when he'd been a boy and trying desperately to copy the emotions that were so important in interacting with adults.

"What do you mean? What have you learned?"

Tom smiled cruelly. "Only that Voldemort lost more of his sanity and even more of his appearance the more Horcruxes he made. _I_ feel better—clearer, stronger—when I have you and now the locket with me, so hopefully Voldemort's mind will return to him at least partially due to being in close proximity with me and the rest of you, and I can convince him that he ought not make any more Horcruxes."

"You wouldn't honestly give one of us to him," the Horcrux declared, tilting his head to consider Tom as if he were trying to work out a complex problem. "It wouldn't be much of an insurance policy if you just handed one of us over."

Tom shrugged carelessly and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "I might hand over _one_ , if it helped him regain some of his sanity. I had thought I'd hand over one of the later ones so that I could keep you for myself, since you're such better company, but I'm not sure about that anymore."

"Surely they're better company, since they can offer you more information than I can." The Horcrux sneered in displeasure. "You've already taken everything you can from me."

"Interestingly enough his Horcruxes are a reflection of his decay. Take you, for example." He paused long enough to see that the Horcrux's nostrils were flaring, despite the fact that he didn't actually need to breathe. "You are almost entirely normal in regards to your intelligence and, Merlin knows, your looks. But your magic and your mental control just isn't at all there. I never told you that when I was inside the diary, I could control my environment with great precision. I wasn't stuck in the Chamber of Secrets at all, despite having been created there, unlike how you are stuck in this filthy graveyard."

"You're lying" insisted the Horcrux, though Tom could tell that he didn't really think so.

"No, not at all," he answered calmly. "Take the locket for another example. I didn't even have to let _him_ open himself up by trying to invade my mind before I was able to break through his mental shields and take everything I wanted from him. Unfortunately he was quite insane and his memories weren't as clear as yours. So yes, you're better company."

The Horcrux's sneer deepened, and Tom made a mental note, for future reference, that his face really did not look either attractive or intimidating when he did that. "So you didn't have to let him fuck you either?"

"I guess that means you don't want to continue our relationship. That's too bad; since we're going to be stuck with each other anyway, you really ought to get over this little incident and learn to take some pleasure in your situation, Tommy."

The Horcrux's angry shouts were still ringing in his head when Tom collapsed back against his bed in Malfoy Manor, laughing so hard that he nearly brought himself to tears.

* * *

The hearing of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to determine the status of the hippogriff was nothing more than a formality by the time it rolled around. Lucius had worked his magic so well that he had actually managed to have the case heard directly by the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures instead of having to go through all of the red tape, so their decision to dispose of the hippogriff was really just an exercise in rubberstamping a foregone conclusion.

Still, Lucius reported that Hagrid had been a blubbering mess throughout the proceedings, and the committee had been so hostile towards Dumbledore that the man had actually appeared a bit taken aback.

"Even Amos Diggory was visibly angry about the situation," Lucius informed him excitedly. He was quite a bit more animated than Tom had seen him in recent months. "If even Diggory is this upset, then Dumbledore's image is more tarnished than even I had dared to hope!"

Tom eyed him with slight annoyance. "Who is this Diggory?"

Lucius sat down heavily in his customary wingback chair across from Tom's. "I apologize, My Lord. Diggory is a Light wizard who is fairly high in the department. I believe that he will be the next head, and he would need to be replaced if we were ever to take over the Ministry."

Tom let it slide that the nature of his comment had been in the hypothetical, instead of saying _when_ they took over the Ministry, but only because the news Lucius had brought was so good and Mulciber chose that moment to join them in the library. The older wizard had a wide grin on his face that made him look somehow closer to the teenager Tom remembered than to the wizard in his sixties that he truly was. He was wearing emerald green robes instead of his customary black, with a vibrant silver waistcoat underneath that shimmered whenever it caught the sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall of the Malfoy library.

"I hoped to find you both here," he said jovially as soon as he was close enough that he didn't have to shout. "I've just come from lunch with several members of the school board, and I thought it was time to celebrate."

He produced a bottle of Blishen's Firewhisky from thin air and presented it to Lucius, who only spent a few seconds inspecting the label before he nodded in approval and conjured three tumblers.

"None for our lord, Lucius!" exclaimed Mulciber, and although it was perfectly true that Tom had never enjoyed alcohol, he wasn't entirely sure whether he ought to appreciate Mulciber's interference or be insulted by it. Then Mulciber produced a glass bottle with a cork and no label. Tom could see the condensation forming on the outside of the glass, indicating that the contents were being kept cold. Mulciber bowed to him completely properly, although he still had a smile covering his face. "I know you always hated how the other boys would tease you about it, but I hope you take this gift in the spirit I intend it, My Lord. It's just as you like: only one teaspoon of syrup for every pint of soda, no ice and only slightly chilled."

Tom took the bottle with delicate fingers and stared at it in shocked silence for only a few seconds, but certainly long enough that his lack of reaction was making Mulciber uncomfortable.

"You went to the Three Broomsticks for this?" he asked softly.

Mulciber looked at him hopefully. "Of course, My Lord. Rastaban was planning to give you some to celebrate his success at Gringotts. Since he, er… couldn't fulfil that desire, I thought that I would do it now."

"Thank you, Mulciber," Tom finally replied, although he made sure to keep his voice harsh and immediately followed it up with an order. "Pour it for me."

He reflected that there were some definite benefits to working with men who had known him when he had still been the schoolboy Tom Riddle who had a not-so-secret addiction to the Three Broomsticks' cherry soda. Men like Lestrange and Mulciber remembered what had made him great before his other self had eroded his mind and body beyond recognition, and he knew that they were excited for another chance to wipe the slate clean and begin anew from the beginning. (Well, at least that's how Rastaban had felt before he'd been carted off to Azkaban. Hopefully he would still feel the same when Tom managed to free him.) Mulciber's thoughts were so optimistic, in fact, that Tom thought he was probably more confident than Tom himself in his ability to work together with Lord Voldemort and forge something new and even stronger than before.

Tom sipped his slightly chilled cherry soda as he watched Richard and Lucius toast to a job well done.

"What did the other governors have to say?" he asked once his followers had sat back to enjoy their whisky.

Mulciber grinned again. "Those who were already on our side have become even surer in their belief that Dumbledore must be removed from the school, but it is our success with the former Dumbledore apologists that we really ought to celebrate. Hagrid's incompetent testimony and Dumbledore's weak non-justifications of his half-giant have been enough to convince them that they've been defending a headmaster who doesn't deserve it."

"I will officially file the personal injury lawsuit first thing tomorrow morning," Lucius informed them, a pleased smirk covering his face. "I will work closely with my barrister to ensure that we can bring all of Dumbledore's sins out into the open during the testimony. We must be careful, of course, that he isn't able to do anything to point the finger at me for last year's events."

"It would look bad for us if he were to round up all of the former board members to testify that you'd blackmailed them, Malfoy," pointed out Mulciber as he poured himself another glassful of whisky.

"Discredit the ones you can now, ahead of time," ordered Tom easily. "Kill the rest."

Lucius ran his finger along the lip of his glass. "That will be our only option, I fear. We must act before Dumbledore is able to gather any of their testimony or list any of them as witnesses. Belby ought to be easy enough to control; it would just take the slightest slip of the tongue for the Ministry to realize that he doesn't always deal his potions and regulated ingredients strictly within the law. Some of the potions he sells come with automatic minimum sentences in Azkaban, which ought to be enough to motivate him to see things our way."

Mulciber offered a hard smile to show his approval of that suggestion. "Indeed," he assented. "And I'm sure Bertie Higgs would be shattered if his good friend Rufus Scrimgeour were forced to arrest his father Healer Higgs for performing illegal abortions."

"Really?" asked Lucius, turning fully in his chair to face the older wizard, and Tom could suddenly see a very strong resemblance to Draco. "How do you know that?"

Mulciber shrugged. "I had an indiscretion with an unmarried witch once, before I got so old. I don't know if he still performs them, but sixty years ago he was more than happy to take my Galleons and get rid of the problem. Even if we couldn't prove it, the damage to his reputation alone would ruin the family, so I'm sure his son can be convinced not to testify on Dumbledore's behalf."

Lucius blinked a few times as if trying to take that in. Tom was amused that he didn't blink at all when being asked to torture or even murder someone, but he was apparently scandalized at the idea of illegal abortions.

"We will kill the rest and make it look like accidents," he decided. "The others will surely know what's going on and will likely decide on their own not to testify, but if not they can also be dealt with. I will handle it personally."

He was looking forward to it, in fact. Malfoy and Mulciber had been such good little servants lately that he hadn't had an opportunity to torture or kill anyone as often as he'd have liked, and with Draco away at Hogwarts he couldn't even play the psychological mind games he so enjoyed playing with the boy's parents. The last person he'd tortured had been Narcissa Malfoy, but even she had begun acting well enough around him that he couldn't strictly justify torturing her. His wand hand tingled in anticipation.

* * *

Draco had only been back to school for a couple of weeks when his personal house-elf returned from Hogwarts to deliver his first missive to Tom. They had decided that it was safer to correspond through the house-elf rather than through owl, because there was currently not any way for Hogwarts to intercept Draco's house-elf, or even to know about it.

> _My Lord,_
> 
> _The past few weeks have probably been the best I've ever had at this wretched school. Potter has been moping around and not even trying in classes, and I'm surprised every morning he shows up to breakfast that he hasn't just gotten it all over with and tossed himself off Gryffindor Tower the night before. Wouldn't that be grand? It isn't as if he ever eats anyway, so I don't know why he bothers coming to the Great Hall. I think that Longbottom has tried to be his friend, but Potter isn't very responsive from what I can tell._
> 
> _Today in Potions, Professor Snape yelled at him for not paying attention in class and melting his cauldron so badly that we had to evacuate the classroom. Longbottom, who was sitting next to him, actually passed out from the fumes and had to be dragged out of the room by those other two Gryffindor idiots, whatever their names are. I don't know why they couldn't have just levitated him—honestly, that's Muggle influence for you! Professor Snape had barely given him a detention and told him that he had to start paying attention before Potter started screaming at him like a raving lunatic._
> 
> _I think maybe he is a raving lunatic. It'd be great except that it isn't any fun to rile him up anymore. Come to think of it, the only thing I miss about Weasel and the Mudblood is how easy it was to rile them up._
> 
> _The last time the Dementors got close to him, he fainted dead away. I think I forgot to tell you about that after the hippogriff incident. Father told me that it's going to be executed and that I'm to come home soon to meet with the attorney about a personal lawsuit. That oaf Hagrid has been inconsolable; he's barely even teaching his classes anymore, not that he was ever competent at teaching them in the first place. I hope that you and Father get him sacked sooner rather than later. I don't need an Owl in Care of Magical Creatures, but it would be quite embarrassing if I weren't able to get one. _
> 
> _With the Mudblood gone, I'm the top in all of my classes now. I just wish that I'd been able to prove that I'm better than her instead of her just disappearing. Anybody can repeat what they've read in a book, but I am certain that she would have started to fall behind now that we're older and expected to do more practical spell work. I can already do basic non-verbal magic! What could that stupid Mudblood do besides recite lines?_
> 
> _I have to go to detention now, because Professor McGonagall caught me making fun of Potter for not being able to complete his homework without his Mudblood's help. Stupid bitch. I hope you remove her just like you're going to remove Dumbledore._
> 
> _Draco_

After Tom sorted through the nonsense to get to the meat of what Draco was telling him, he was very pleased with the report. So Potter wasn't eating, wasn't doing his work, and wasn't speaking to his fellow Gryffindors? He was happy to hear that the boy was handling things so poorly. He sounded quite depressed, which is of course just what Tom would want to for him, if he _had_ to be alive. He did hope that Potter didn't fling himself from any towers, though, if only because Tom wanted to kill him personally.

He would have to instruct Lucius to investigate Draco's claims that Hagrid was doing his job even more poorly than before. If they could have the oaf removed for cause even before the upcoming trial, then that would make Dumbledore's decision to hire him in the first place, and not to decide _himself_ to remove him from his teaching post, look even worse for the old goat.

Tom would have really loved to have told the Granger girl all about Draco's letter, but he was too far along in his plan for her to do something like that now. It would only turn her away from him.

Today she was hunched over the kitchen table scribbling notes about a book that was at least twice as thick as her own arm. Tom was sure to make enough noise when he entered the cabin that she took note of his presence, since she still hadn't shown any greater talent at magic than before. She looked towards the door, as if anybody else would have been entering the cabin and she had to check, but she blushed when she caught sight of him and turned quickly back to her work.

"Working hard, I see," he said levelly, neither raising his voice nor speaking too softly. "I hope that this time you will try to report what you read without inserting your own commentary. I have no need for your opinion."

"Of course." She didn't turn to look at him, but she had stopped writing. "I'm sorry."

Tom didn't grace her with another comment but instead left the kitchen through the small door leading towards the bedroom area. The bed was unmade, and he was somewhat surprised that Granger wasn't a habitual bed maker, but not enough to think on it for more than a fleeting second as he passed through the bedroom and towards the walk-in closet that still housed her filthy Muggle parents.

She crashed through the doorway after him, her growing curls flying around her face and partially obscuring her panicked brown eyes. "What are you doing?"

Tom paused and cocked his head to consider her, arranging his face into a quizzical mask. "Did I not promise that I would allow your parents out of their little closet if you proved that you could perform your task to my satisfaction? If you have changed your mind—"

"NO!" she cried at once, and when he lowered his hand from the doorknob and frowned in disapproval at her interruption, she sucked in a breath and tried again. "I mean, no, please, My… My L—lord."

Tom allowed a pleased smirk to wind its way onto his lips.

"Good girl," he said as if speaking to a particularly troublesome, mentally challenged dog. "You would make a wonderful follower, Granger, if you could learn to embrace the things I can teach you instead of fighting them."

He could read in her thoughts that it was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would never follow him even if her life depended on it, but the words never passed her lips as she eyed his proximity to the closet door and realized that it wasn't _her_ life that depended on it but her parents' lives. Instead she boldly looked him in the eyes and said, quite respectfully compared to her racing thoughts, "I'm a Muggle-born."

"Really?" he asked wryly, his mouth curving into the grin that he knew she liked so much.

She swallowed and studiously looked at his eyes and not his mouth. "I mean that I thought you only let pure-bloods join you."

"Oh, that's not true at all," he informed her matter-of-factly. "Half-bloods are welcome to join me, particularly those who have been raised in the magical world and know how to appreciate it. I can make exceptions for particularly exceptional Mudbloods. Take Potter's mother, for example, or you."

He could see that she was caught somewhere between shock at his revelation and pride that he thought her exceptional, even though she was still quite disgusted at the idea of becoming a Death Eater. Tom knew that she likely wanted to sit him down in a chair somewhere and interrogate him about his rules, his cause, and what he had meant by referencing Lily Potter, but he thought that it would do her some good to stew in her questions for a while.

Accordingly, before she could get another word in edgewise, he pointed one long finger at her and said, "If the Muggles interfere with the quality or quantity of your work, I will lock them right back up and you will have no guarantee that I'll ever let them back out again."

She nodded once to show that she understood, but he stood silently staring at her and made no move towards the door. Finally, after so long that Tom thought maybe she was stupid after all, she finally realized what he wanted.

In a small, defeated voice, she said, "Yes, My Lord."

He turned back towards the door and opened it wandlessly, because he knew how fascinated she was by his control of wandless magic, which she had read in one of her useless Hogwarts textbooks was impossible to control with any precision. Tom thought that if he continued to play his cards right, he might yet be able to steal her away from Potter completely and irrevocably.


	16. The Hard Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has to teach some people the hard way.

The little things about being alive (or close enough) pleased Tom the most. He chose not to cast an Impervius Charm on himself as a light rain began to fall, because he enjoyed the splatter of cool raindrops against his skin. The sound of his shoes against the paving stones leading up to the nondescript two-story house also sent a ripple of pleasure through his dark mind. Memories in diaries couldn't click-clack against anything, or make any other noise at all for that matter.

In the end it turned out that it was probably a good choice not to repel the water from his body, because he could see in Helen Higgs's mind as the woman peered through her peephole that the wet hair sticking to his forehead made him look even younger and less threatening than usual. She opened the door without much more thought than that, and Tom smiled shyly to perfect his vulnerable look.

"Good evening, madam. Is Mr. Albert Higgs home? I've a delivery for his hands only."

Whether it was simply a common request or Tom just looked pathetic enough not to qualify as a danger, he wasn't quite sure, but Mrs. Higgs smiled graciously. "Oh, yes. You just come inside out of the rain, dear, and I'll fetch Mr. Higgs for you."

She stood to the side, gesturing into her front hall with a hand that appeared to be covered in flour. Tom stepped inside with a shy smile.

The Higgs home seemed rather typically middle-class to Tom's eyes, not that he had much experience in homes outside of the orphanage, Malfoy Manor, and the Slytherin dormitory, none of which were middle-class in the least. There was a coat rack and an umbrella stand crowding into one corner of the cheery yellow hallway, and several wizarding pictures of the Higgs family were displayed on the walls. He could see a sitting room with an uncomfortable looking sofa off to his left, and straight ahead he could just see into what appeared to be a small dining room stuffed with a large table.

For a man who had significant political clout and many influential friends, Bertie Higgs's home was completely unremarkable.

He heard Higgs stepping on a creaky floorboard before the man appeared around a corner at the far end of the hall. He appeared to be of average height and weight, with average features and plain brown hair. He was rather as nondescript as his home.

Tom wondered briefly if the appearance of utter normalcy was somehow beneficial in climbing the political ladder. Well, for _other_ people anyway. Tom would just take over by manipulation and sheer force, because he was incapable of appearing normal for very long.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" asked Higgs.

He was using that strictly polite tone most people reserved for servers and shop girls and other undesirable but unavoidable parts of life. Tom had grown used to that tone being directed at him when he'd been nothing more than a skinny orphan dressed in threadbare clothes.

He pushed his damp hair out of his face and stared at his victim with unmistakable red eyes. "Oh, you can do a great many things for me, Bertie Higgs."

Higgs let out an indistinct exclamation of shock and reached for his wand, but Tom's silent, wandless spell upended him and sent him flying ass over head into the wall behind him. Tom wouldn't have viewed the man as any sort of real threat even if he hadn't been a Horcrux and virtually indestructible, so he felt no compunction about turning his back on Higgs in order to open the front door. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear his companions' thoughts quite clearly, one filled with glee and the other with impatience.

He stared coolly at the empty space. "Come in."

Wet footsteps appeared on the hardwood floor moments before the door swung shut again and Mulciber's head appeared floating in thin air, covered in his white Death Eater mask.

"Thank you, My Lord," he said, eyeing the groaning man sprawled against the far wall with a kind of sick pleasure.

Tom watched indifferently as he began to untangle himself from the Invisibility Cloak.

"Next time remember to charm the bottom of your shoes as well," he admonished, gesturing to the wet shoeprints leading from the door to where Mulciber was standing. Tom couldn't see his reaction through the mask, so he quickly lost interest and turned sharply to look at Lucius Malfoy, who was hanging his own Invisibility Cloak neatly on the coat rack as if he planned to stay for tea. "Bring the woman."

Malfoy paused almost imperceptibly; probably even Tom wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been watching so closely and if he hadn't been able to read in Malfoy's mind that he didn't appreciate being relegated to such a menial task. But it was over nearly before it had begun, and Lucius turned to make his way down the hallway.

"Don't use magic on anything except the woman," Tom reminded him before he disappeared through the narrow doorway leading in the direction Mrs. Higgs had disappeared. "Any magic you use on the house or an object will leave a trace."

Some sort of fire spell streaked towards Tom suddenly, and his attention turned to Bertie as quickly as a striking snake. Mulciber cried out a too-late warning from behind him, but Tom didn't bother to step out of the way. The spell burned through his robes and scorched his skin, but with barely a flick of Tom's hand it dissipated. He could feel his own anger mixing with the emotions of the others in the room: Higgs's terror and Mulciber's anxious confusion.

Tom inhaled a deep breath that he didn't need and then released it, using the expansion of his lungs and the relief of a long exhalation to calm his mind and refocus solely on his objective.

"Ah, Bertie, this isn't the time for foolish bravery."

He watched without any flicker of an expression on his face as Higgs gaped in horror at his healing skin. He gave his body a cursory glance as he reached out to catch Higgs's wand and deposited it into his outer pocket. He could sense Mulciber's surprise and confusion but didn't turn around to acknowledge him.

"In fact, you could have avoided all of this if you hadn't decided to be brave in the first place."

The poor man seemed utterly unable to form either a coherent thought or a coherent sentence. "You—I—I didn't think—"

"That is very clear, Bertie," interrupted Tom. "What sort of person would respond to my offer by allowing his family's reputation to be ruined and his father to be tossed into Azkaban? I heard that he's already died in prison, Bertie. Not surprising at his age, I suppose."

"P—p—p—please…"

"Were you a Gryffindor, Bertie?" Tom went on, his tone light and conversational. "I hate Gryffindors. What they call bravery, I call stupidity."

Higgs's eyes were glued to where Tom was reverently tracing the contours of Potter's wand with his long fingers. "I—I—I didn't kn—know it was y—y—you."

"It's too late for excuses, Bertie. I've already roused myself and made the trip, you see."

Lucius appeared then with Mrs. Higgs held at wand point in front of him. Her entire front was covered with flour now, and judging from the white-speckled state of Lucius's robes it seemed like she had put up something of a fight. Tom could sense Mulciber's amusement at Lucius's appearance, but to the veteran Death Eater's credit, he didn't make a single sound.

"Bring her to me," Tom said, his voice now calm but as cold and hard as ice.

He reveled in the way her eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, so dilated with adrenaline that he could barely see the blue of her irises. Malfoy shoved her to her knees at Tom's feet, just far enough out of reach that she couldn't actually touch him. This is what he'd been missing: a human reduced to the abject, mindless terror of a caged animal. His mind briefly flashed to an image of another woman—a Muggle woman, slightly older than Helen Higgs but better looking, staring up at him with wild eyes as she begged the grandson she'd never known to forgive the sins of her family—but Mrs. Higgs's quite different voice brought him back to the present.

"Please, whatever you want!" she pleaded. Her voice was much stronger than her husband's, although her thoughts weren't any more coherent. "Whatever you want! Please!"

Tom tilted his head in a way that he could see in her thoughts made him strongly resemble a cobra staring down an enemy. He let his blood-red eyes bore into her. "I was always going to take what I want."

"Please! Please!"

Tom Silenced her with a flick of his wrist, and she collapsed in despair, falling back against Lucius's legs. He stepped back and briskly shook out his robes as if he could remove her touch that way. Tom couldn't see his expression through the ornate mask he was wearing, but he assumed that Malfoy was scowling. Mrs. Higgs toppled the rest of the way onto the hardwood floor, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Now, Bertie, do you see what your actions are costing your wife?" demanded Tom, fighting to keep his tone the same despite his amusement at Lucius's expense.

Higgs shifted as if to stand, although what he thought he could do to protect his wife against two Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself, Tom couldn't have said.

Tom gestured to Mulciber, who was still standing behind him. "Hold him. Make sure he watches."

Mulciber crossed the length of the hallway before Higgs managed to stand, but the man still tried to throw his weight against Mulciber in some sort of feeble tackle. It was all he had left, Tom supposed, since he didn't have a wand. Richard's mind flickered with delight as he brought his heavy hand down hard on Higg's shoulder, slamming him back into the wall with a sickening crunch. Higgs moaned in pain both at the impact and at Mulciber's further manhandling. He was soon facing Tom and his wife with one of Mulciber's hands wrapped tightly around his throat and a wand pointed at his eyes so he couldn't close them or direct his gaze away.

"At first I just wanted your cooperation on the simple matter of not testifying on Dumbledore's behalf. It is such a simple thing, Bertie, that I cannot understand your reaction," Tom explained as soon as he was happy with Higgs's position. "I could just kill you for your lack of cooperation and have you replaced, but I think I might like having a servant so close to Scrimgeour. First, though, we must deal with your punishment for daring to raise your wand against Lord Voldemort."

Tom brought up his own wand to force Mrs. Higgs to her knees in front of him. She had tears and snot streaming down her face in equal measure, mixing with the flour and creating a disgusting mess. Tom was certain that Lucius would burn his robes later.

Higgs's voice was choked and strained due to Mulciber's grip on his throat, but he managed to gasp out, "Please…"

"Which is your wand hand, Bertie?" continued Tom as if he hadn't heard. "It was the right hand, wasn't it, that you raised against me?"

Helen Higgs's right arm extended out towards Tom, palm up, and the long sleeve of her blouse magically rolled up to expose a lightly freckled forearm. She stared up at him with bulging, fear-filled eyes and struggled to pull away. Of course, all of her efforts were futile in the face of Tom's overwhelming magic.

"No! NO!" screamed Bertie, his voice escalating with every successive shriek. "NONONONO!"

Tom Silenced him before he'd even fully turned to look at the man.

"Since you have proven that you care nothing for yourself or your own reputation, I will have to punish dear Helen instead. You do care about your wife, don't you?"

Higgs was screaming without making a sound and thrashing in Mulciber's grip, until the Death Eater had to use magic to subdue him much like Tom had done to the woman. Then Higgs could only sit silent and immobile as his wide, panicked eyes were forced to fixate on the grisly spectacle at the other end of his front hallway.

Tom smiled cruelly. "Ah, I see that you do care about her."

He unsilenced Mrs. Higgs before he began, because he wanted her husband to get the complete experience of her being tortured for his mistakes. She began shrieking immediately, not producing any discernible words but only long, frightened screams that were muffled by the fact that she couldn't open her mouth any wider than the half-formed word on which Tom had frozen her in place.

Still, somehow she managed to scream even louder when Tom made the first cut on her arm.

He sliced just through her skin, avoiding the muscle and bone. He could have just lopped the whole thing off in one go, of course, but he wanted to take the process slowly so that her pain would be as great as possible and the sights and sounds would have their greatest effect on her husband. There was a delicate balance, though, between taking it so slowly that she could feel each individual pain and going so slowly that she went into shock or otherwise became somewhat numb to the full sensations.

Her blood flowed freely down her arm, thick and rich, and pooled onto the floor between them as Tom cut through each layer of muscle and sinew and bone and skin with surgical precision.

Mulciber's sadistic arousal as he watched permeated Tom's thoughts and almost caused him to give into his own arousal. However, a Dark Lord simply did not spring an erection while trying to maintain a serious demeanor and torture middle-age witches, even if said Dark Lord was physically a teenager, so he valiantly stamped down his reaction. Instead he concentrated on the feeling of Dark magic surging through his body and out his fingertips into his wand, and on the now hoarse screams of Helen Higgs.

Finally, just when his victim's voice was beginning to give out and Tom was sure that she would have collapsed from shock and blood loss had she not been held upright by his magic, he cast the final curse and watched as her forearm fell to the floor between them with a horrid plop of finality. It landed in the blood, which splashed outwards and splattered Mrs. Higg's whole front and the bottoms of Tom's green robes and his black shoes.

Lucius, who had long since moved further away, leapt even further backwards to make sure that he avoided the mess. Tom distantly reminded himself to have a talk with the man about proper Death Eater decorum.

Tom turned to look at him with an unforgiving expression. "Make sure that she doesn't bleed out."

He could sense Lucius's utmost reluctance to get anywhere near such a mess, but the man stepped forward immediately and produced his wand from somewhere within his voluminous robes. It wasn't his snakehead cane, of course, because that would have been immediately identifiable, but rather it was his boyhood wand.

Tom only watched for a few moments as Malfoy examined the stump several inches below Mrs. Higg's right elbow and then cast some sort of spell that made the woman shriek briefly and then dissolve into inarticulate moans. A cauterizing spell, Tom assumed. Tom's focus turned instead to Mr. Higgs, who was still frozen in place by Mulciber's magic.

He traversed the hallway at a deliberately leisurely pace, allowing Higgs to watch him coming and to take note of the trail of Mrs. Higgs's blood left in his wake. Finally, when he was close enough to see the whites of the man's bloodshot eyes, he demanded in a glacial tone, "His arm."

Mulciber didn't react for a handful of seconds, but soon enough he realized what Tom meant and manipulated his spell so that Higgs's right arm was extended in the same way his wife's had been before Tom had separated it from her body. Higgs's eyes widened desperately, but he couldn't otherwise move or make a sound.

"Now, now, Bertie, there's no need to fear," reassured Tom, although nobody could have actually been reassured by his voice. "I told you that your wife was taking the punishment in your stead. That's all done now, you see, so we can move past such unpleasantness."

Higgs's mind was such a jumble of horror, disgust, and guilt that Tom could barely make it all out, but nonetheless he could clearly feel the shocked anger produced by that comment. He very nearly laughed under the combined weight of his own and Mulciber's amusement.

"I could place you under the Imperius Curse, but I judge the risk too great since your best friend is the Head of the Auror Office. You can do my bidding without being placed under the curse, can't you, Bertie?"

Higgs couldn't move or speak, but his expressive eyes attempted to convey his willingness to cooperate now that he was faced with Lord Voldemort himself.

" _Crucio_ ," Tom said calmly, as if he were saying hello. He held it for only a few seconds before releasing it, and when he next spoke his voice was full of mocking anger. "Of course you can't! I cut off your wife's arm, for Merlin's sake! You mustn't lie to me, Bertie, because I can see everything in your mind, and you only make me have to punish you."

Bertie stared up at him, silent and frozen.

Tom pressed Potter's wand harshly into the tanned flesh of the man's forearm. "Fortunately, I know how to control you without resorting to the Imperius Curse."

Bertie would have screamed, Tom was sure, if he'd been able. He had been sure to push every bit of malevolence and Darkness into the magic that he could, so he knew that it was at least as painful as the Cruciatus Curse. The man would have screamed even without the pain, if his horror-filled eyes were any indication of his reaction as he watched the terrible skull appear on his once-pristine skin, quickly followed by the miniature likeness of the basilisk slithering in and around it.

"My Death Eaters are quite upset that I gave you such an honor, Bertie. But they understand your purpose. What would Auror Scrimgeour say, I wonder, if he saw his best friend Bertie Higgs with a Dark Mark on his arm?"

It was not an actual Dark Mark, of course, because Tom was not Voldemort and could not reproduce the Dark Mark. However, it was the very image of one except tied to Tom instead of to his other self.

Tom let his lips stretch into a half-amused grin over his white teeth as he read Bertie's thoughts. The man was still the consummate Gryffindor even after the horrors he'd endured.

"Oh, Bertie, did you really think that I would leave your memory perfectly intact for you to show your friend? You and dear Helen will remember every second of tonight, but anyone else who looks will see only what I want them to see. Namely, you coming to me willingly, and you inflicting that injury on your wife with your own hands when she refused to do the same."

He motioned for Mulciber to release the man, and Higgs promptly sank to the floor in defeat and misery.

"Good. I can see that we understand one another. You will carry out my orders without question. If you make a mistake, then your wife will be punished on your behalf. If you kill yourself or allow yourself to be captured, then I'm sure I have at least one Death Eater who would love to torture and rape her every day of the rest of her life. If she should die before I'm satisfied, then your grandchildren will take her place. They're lovely children, from what I can see in your family portraits."

"Y—you wouldn't—"

"Me? Oh, no, not personally. They're a bit young for my tastes." Tom turned his head to look at Mulciber, and Higgs whipped around to stare at the unknown Death Eater who had been his jailor throughout the entire ordeal. "But _you_ like to fuck helpless little girls, don't you?"

He knew that Mulciber was smiling behind his mask, although he couldn't see it. "Until they can't squeal anymore, My Lord."

Tom smiled in return, presenting a gruesome parody of happiness.

"And when he's done with them, I will have them turned into werewolves before returning them to your family."

He knew that he had ensured Bertie Higgs's cooperation long before his and Mulciber's little game, but the utter adoration rolling off of Mulciber in waves was well worth the diversion. Besides, one could never make too many threats.

* * *

Several weeks later, the preparations for Malfoy's lawsuit were well underway and going as well as could be expected. The hippogriff was scheduled to be executed in two weeks' time; apparently nobody had told Hagrid that he could file an appeal, so there wasn't anything clogging up the works on that front. Furthermore, there had turned out not to be any need for Lucius to investigate Draco's claims about Hagrid's devolving classes, because one of the other governors had already been told about it by her granddaughter, a sixth-year Ravenclaw. That was the best outcome for Tom's plans, of course, because the less Lucius and Mulciber were directly involved in things, the fewer suspicions could arise.

Malfoy's barrister was happily surprised when he received the list of potential witnesses from Dumbledore's barrister and saw how incredibly short it was. He was a former Voldemort-sympathizer who had not quite attained the honor of the Dark Mark before Voldemort's fall, and he had worked closely with the Malfoys for several decades, so he was sure that Lucius had some nefarious hand in the situation but was wise enough to pretend otherwise.

Tom could not think of the situation with Dumbledore's witnesses without thinking of Mrs. Higgs's screams, the satisfying squelch of her severed arm as it landed in the pool of her blood, and Mr. Higgs's stricken, bloodshot eyes. And of the various other forays he'd made into the world of blackmail and intimidation in the name of removing Dumbledore from power, none of which had been anywhere near as satisfying as the Higgs incident.

Now, with the civil trial scheduled for less than a month away, the barrister had arranged for Draco to come home for a weekend so that he and Dumbledore's lawyer could take the boy's testimony. Given the circumstances and the fact that Lucius presented his son as a traumatized minor, it was deemed unnecessary for Draco to actually miss class to attend the trial.

Tom was only happy that Draco would finally deliver the package he'd been waiting for months to get his hands on. In fact, he was barely able to contain himself while Lucius and Narcissa greeted their son and held him in the parlor talking after his arrival. Contain himself he had, though, because he hadn't wanted the Malfoys to have any idea exactly what he had enlisted Draco to do.

Honestly, with the way Narcissa carried on, one would think that Draco had been off at war for several years instead of at school for a few weeks. The more Tom saw of how actual parents behaved, the happier he became that he hadn't had any parents after all.

Finally, later that night after everybody else had gone to bed, he heard Draco's distinctive footfalls against the stone floors outside the library door. He nearly leapt from his chair and rushed the boy, but he managed to stay seated and make a passable attempt at nonchalance as Draco crossed the room towards him. He had a plain wooden box in his hands, which looked far too ordinary for what Tom knew it contained.

Draco dropped to his knees beside Tom's long, outstretched legs. "Everything went according to plan, My Lord."

Tom all but snatched the box out of his little follower's hands and threw open the lid so violently that he was sure he had broken the hinge. There, nestled in a dark green cushion that had clearly been transfigured out of one of Draco's silk shirts, lay Ravenclaw's diadem. The intricate curves of the gold pieces and the sheen of the sapphires were just as Tom had always imagined they would be when he had looked at the painting of Rowena Ravenclaw that hung at Hogwarts. The Dark magic and evil energy that were absolutely leaking out of every surface of it were not exactly as he had imagined, but Tom had grown quite used to it by now from handling so many Horcruxes.

He wondered vaguely if he had felt like that to others when he was in the diary, or if he still felt like that now. Perhaps this was the aura he exuded when he lost control of his anger and his magic, such as when he had realized that the locket had been stolen?

Draco shifted beside him, his hand brushing softly against the outside of Tom's thigh as the boy withdrew his now-empty arms, and Tom was pulled out of his musings.

"You didn't try it on, Draco?"

"No, I—!" Draco began, but then he seemed to remember all at once that one simply did not lie to the Dark Lord, and he bit his lip and looked down at his own lap. "I mean, I did think about it. About what it would be like, I mean. But you said not to, so I didn't really do it."

Tom inhaled sharply as he ran his finger along one sharp edge of the gold, and the Dark magic curled around the digit and violently lashed out against him. So this was Horcrux was not anywhere near as friendly as the ring, then.

"Yes, I know that you didn't wear it," he finally replied after what must have seemed like forever to Draco. "If you had, you'd be cursed. Probably dead."

Draco's head shot up and his surprised eyes met Tom's. "You didn't tell me that part!"

Tom narrowed his eyes, which was more than enough to reprimand Malfoy. The blond ducked his head and mumbled a quiet but sincere apology.

"Should I have told you?" Tom asked, a slight challenge in his voice. "Was there any real danger of you disobeying me?"

"Of course not!" insisted Draco, his earnest gray gaze rising again to flash at Tom. Then his eyes widened and he immediately added, "My Lord."

Tom allowed himself to smirk. He would never admit it to anyone, but he had come to miss Draco when he'd been away at school—just a bit, of course, and not that it meant anything beyond that Tom was bored of constantly being around the likes of Lucius and Richard.

He gestured to Draco's customary chair across from his. "Have a seat, Draco. Tell me what you've been doing at Hogwarts. Is there anything you haven't been able to put into your letters?"

As Draco rose from the rug and made his way to the large chair, Tom caught glimpses in his mind of cruel pranks against Potter and nervous, nearly-chaste first kisses with a girl Tom didn't recognize. But none of that was what Draco chose to mention when his mind finally settled on a topic.

"I… Well, I…" Draco swallowed, and in the brief pause before he continued Tom watched in his mind's eye as Draco ran his fingers over the spines of a row of thin books in a particularly dusty stack in the Hogwarts library, clearly looking for a particular volume. "I looked up your school records."

"I see," said Tom at once, because it was nearly an automatic response when he didn't know quite what to say. "That is… interesting. What did you find?"

"Well, you were an exceptional student," replied Draco. "How did you have the time to get twelve O.W.L.s? And eleven N.E.W.T.s! And all Outstandings!"

Tom, who actually didn't know any more about his school record after being put into the diary than Draco had before looking him up, was quite gratified to have that confirmed. He supposed that he really had dropped Muggle Studies at the N.E.W.T. level, then, as he had been thinking about doing before being made into a Horcrux.

"And you were the top student in all of your subjects, and there was a note about your Award for Special Services to the School, although it didn't mention what it was for, of course."

Tom grinned in genuine amusement. "No, of course not. There was no ceremony at all, and I was told that I mustn't speak about it to anyone. Then my badge was relegated to the furthest corner of the Trophy Room where probably nobody would notice it. I wished more than once that they would have just given me the badge; I would have had the gold melted down and made quite a bit of money from it."

Draco laughed from deep within his belly.

"I—I—" he tried to say when he thought he'd controlled his laughter. He was finally able to explain, "I moved it to the front of the trophy case, in front of the badges Dumbledore had made up for Potter and the Weasel after last year. The next time Potter has detention, he's sure to see it!"

Tom didn't think that it was anywhere near as amusing as Draco did—he doubted that he had ever thought anything was as amusing as Draco did—but he was so giddy about the retrieval of this last Horcrux and Draco's laughter was so infectious that he allowed himself to smile.


	17. Wheels in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sooner does one plan show fruit than several more begin to sprout in Tom's mind.

Draco was scheduled to Floo back before classes on Monday morning. Narcissa had insisted that he should stay home as long as possible ("They must not feed you well enough at that school. You are much too thin!"), and Draco had been perfectly willing to oblige. Tom suspected that his cooperative attitude had more to do with Draco's luxurious private bedroom than with the quality of Hogwarts' foodstuffs, which he personally remembered quite fondly. Still he was surprised that Draco hadn't tried to get away from his overbearing mother sooner.

Tom was sure that even if his mother had lived, he probably would have ended up killing her eventually if she had been anything like Draco's mother.

Not that he was annoyed enough to give up the great fun he was having at Narcissa's expense, of course.

He shot a humored smirk in her direction when Draco looked down at his plate, but she barely had time to register his expression and begin to worry before Tom said, "Draco, there will be no need for you to send me anymore letters this year."

Draco's eyes, full of surprise and worry and quite a lot of hurt, shot up to meet his across the wide expanse of the Malfoys' dining table.

"My Lord…" he began, with a notable hesitation, "were they not… helpful?"

"They were quite helpful." Tom kept his voice as bland as possible, but Draco still lit up with pride, even mixed with confusion as it was. Tom took another bite of sausage and chewed deliberately slowly. Draco managed not to blurt out his questions while he waited, but Tom could tell that it was a close thing. Finally, he said, "However, your mother has expressed some worry at you being given assignments at your age. I find that I am inclined to listen to her and keep you out of it until you're older."

Of course, Tom's pronouncement had nothing whatsoever to do with Narcissa Malfoy's worries, which the woman knew, even if her son did not. After all, Tom had very nearly killed her the last time she'd tried to keep her son away from the Dark Lord. But even if she hadn't been able to figure out his end game in lying yet, Draco's reaction made it immediately apparent.

" _Mother_!" hissed her son as he spun to glare at her. There was a look of such undisguised fury on his face that even Tom was very slightly surprised.

For her part, Narcissa's expression was one of surprise and not a little anger. She turned to look at Lucius, but of course her husband could no more offer help against Tom than she could help herself. They both turned again to look at their son. Tom knew that he had managed to both tie their hands and stir the beginning of distrust and resentment in Draco's mind.

Finally, in a smooth, soothing tone, Lucius put in, "Now, my dear, I am sure that Draco can handle writing a few letters. It does not put him in any danger at all, I am sure."

Tom could see the ploy for what it was: Even if Draco no longer completely trusted his mother, at least he might still trust Lucius if he seemed supportive, and then at least one of them might still have some control over their son's situation. Tom wasn't at all sure whether Narcissa would ever _forgive_ her husband for it, though.

Lucius shot a strained smiled at his wife and son from across the table. "Surely we can allow him to perform this small service for our lord?"

Narcissa steadfastly avoided meeting either Tom's or Lucius's gaze, or even looking in either of their directions at all. She smoothed her expression into one of reconciliatory calm.

"Yes… Yes, I think that would be all right."

Before anyone else could respond, Lucius added, "There now, it is all settled. But you cannot fault your mother for being worried about you, Draco. You are our only child, and as much as you wish to grow up quickly, your mother and I wish that you could stay young just a little longer."

Draco barely managed a nod in acknowledgement before he turned to look at Tom with so much hope spread across his face that it would have been quite sickening if it hadn't been exactly what Tom had been looking for. And it was still a little sickening even then.

"Well, if your mother withdraws her objections," Tom said, twisting the knife in Mrs. Malfoy's heart just once more, "then I expect your reports weekly, as before."

"Yes, My Lord!"

Tom unfolded his long limbs gracefully from his chair and headed for the door. Just before he exited the room, he turned back and saw the youngest Malfoy's eyes still on him. He purposefully softened his expression just enough that Draco was able to discern the change.

"Oh, yes . . ." he began thoughtfully, as if he hadn't planned it all along, "I have some books that I would like you to study. You may come with me to the library."

When Draco leapt up from the table and followed Tom out of the dining room without a backwards glance at either of his parents, Tom and the Malfoys all knew who was winning Draco's loyalty.

Later, after the littlest Malfoy had been packed off to school and Tom had spent all day in the library, he paused outside of Lucius's study on his way back towards his bedroom. The Malfoys were having an argument inside, and of course he had no compunctions about listening at doors.

"What do you want me to do, Narcissa?" came Lucius's voice, raised and clearly agitated.

"I want you to be a father to your son! For once!" she said not-at-all kindly.

His voice rose even further in response. "I am being a father to my son! I cannot get rid the Dark Lord, not even this version of him! I am protecting Draco the best I can under the circumstances!"

"It's _your fault_ that this version of him even exists!" shrieked his wife. " _You_ released him into this world! _You_ offered him your son's services!"

Tom was torn between barging into the room and Cruciating Narcissa Malfoy's brain out of her nose, or staying where he was and listening further. He had never allowed anyone to talk about him in that manner without punishment, and he had no intention of starting now. However, in the end his curiosity won out over his anger. He could dream up new ways to torture Narcissa later.

"I can't go back in time and change it!" defended Lucius, the edge in his voice replaced now with defeat. "I would change what I did last year if I could—I would go back and make it so that I never gave the Weasley girl that diary—but I have to live in _reality_ , Cissy. Even if Tom Riddle did not exist, You Know Who still would. Draco cannot escape his father's fate, just like I could not escape my father's fate. You knew that when you married me, and you knew that when we conceived our son."

There was a pause, then Narcissa said coolly, "If _I_ could go back and change something, I would make it so that I'd never married a Death Eater or brought an innocent baby into it."

She was so intent on storming out of her husband's study and on wiping away her tears that she did not notice Tom standing a little ways down the corridor, which was probably for the best. Tom would not have wanted to distract her from such fresh misery.

* * *

Lucius was still standoffish and sullen a week later when he led Mulciber into Tom's study. Tom found it distantly amusing, but his patience was admittedly beginning to wear a bit thin. Perhaps it wasn't exactly fair of him to purposefully drive Malfoy to the edge of his tolerance and then get annoyed at the results he'd caused, but what was the point of being a Dark Lord if he couldn't be as capricious as he pleased?

"Mrs. Weasley's been committed!" crowed Mulciber almost as soon as he'd crossed over the threshold, distracting Tom from his musings about Malfoy, who had now gone from moping to barely able to contain himself.

"What?" exclaimed Lucius. "When did this happen? Why didn't someone tell me?"

Richard cast a glance at Tom, but when it became apparent that he wasn't going to step in and curse either one of them for their disrespect, he turned back to Malfoy with a cruel, elated grin. "I doubt that it's made the Ministry rounds yet. It's all very hush-hush. I only heard so soon because the receptionists were gossiping about it in front of me."

Lucius was nearly hysterical with laughter, and Tom figured that it had more to do with him appreciating the opportunity to let loose and relieve some stress than with him actually thinking it was that funny.

Of course, Tom himself couldn't really care any less about the Weasleys' misfortune, except that it would surely hurt Potter to watch the woman reduced so low because of Potter's own failure. He could tell that Potter was the type to take everybody else's actions and misfortunes onto his own shoulders, even when anybody else could objectively see that it wasn't his fault. Draco's reports about the boy's apparent mental state only confirmed what he'd already known.

"What about her clock?" he asked, the wheels turning in his mind. "I understand that she carries it around with her constantly."

Mulciber pondered that train of thought for a moment and then shrugged. "She must have it with her. I've never heard of her coming to the hospital without it, not even for her hour-long sessions with the Mind Healer, so I can't imagine that Weasley would have got her out of the house without it unless he knocked her unconscious."

"She stills trusts it then? Unquestioningly?"

"Yes, My Lord," Richard replied, standing just a bit taller in anticipation for whatever plan Tom was scheming.

Tom finally smiled.

"Excellent. Then I will need you to find out her precise location in the hospital." He picked his wand up from the desk with deliberate movements. "Unfortunately, neither of you has enough skill with charms for what I have in mind, so I will have to go to St. Mungo's myself. Of course, neither of you can be of any help with my other plan either. I find that you are both quite useless to me of late."

He watched with barely contained amusement as they simultaneously reared backwards in alarm as if the same puppet master controlled both their strings.

"My Lord, I am certain that I—we—can do _whatever_ you require…."

Tom really hoped that Voldemort had never actually enjoyed such blatant ass-kissing. Of course Tom wanted to be feared, but he'd prefer it if everybody's reaction to terror was to keep their mouths shut, not to yammer away with empty platitudes.

He shifted head ever so slightly and let his gaze fall directly on Malfoy. "As reassuring as I am sure I find that, I need somebody slightly stupider than either of you."

That didn't seem to reassure Malfoy at all, but Mulciber at least seemed to recognize the glint of humor in his master's eyes. The tension in his shoulders relaxed considerably, and he offered a small smile that was really nothing more than a twitch at the sides of his mouth.

"Of course, My Lord."

Tom was honestly glad at times that he had someone around who remembered what he had been like when he'd been human. Not that he would ever tell Mulciber any such thing. He sat back in Abraxas's plush desk chair without acknowledging the older man's words or expression.

"I know where Lord Voldemort is," he began, then paused long enough to watch the mixed joy and surprise and fear that crossed over his followers' faces. "Well, in any case, I know the general area where he is. What I need is someone too stupid to figure out why I would send someone to Albania."

Lucius looked like he would have let his jaw fall open in horror and astonishment if he hadn't endured a lifetime of training in proper pure-blood comportment, and instead he had to settle for looking a bit like he'd sat on a porcupine.

Mulciber was clearly torn between excitement and anxiety, but he managed to recover himself first. He swallowed visibly and appeared to search for the right words for a moment before asking, "My Lord… do you not want to… to find him yourself?"

"I imagine that he would attack me on sight. That would not be very conducive to the two of us forming any sort of working relationship." Tom had to consider for a moment just what he wanted to share with the two Death Eaters, but his thoughts were so rapid that he didn't pause long enough for either of them to discern it. "He will possess the person who finds him, just as he did two years ago, and he will pick apart every thought in his vessel's mind. His vessel will simply have to know enough that Voldemort will be willing to form an alliance instead of trying to kill me."

"And if he isn't?" blurted Malfoy.

He looked like he immediately regretted it, and Tom could hear Mulciber thinking that he was curious of the answer but glad he hadn't been the one to ask.

Tom frowned. "He will be. But if not, then you will just have to hope that I am stronger than him."

In Malfoy's mind, images of Draco and the beginnings of dangerous thoughts began to take shape.

"None of that, Lucius." The man's gray eyes shot up to meet Tom's red ones, and Tom offered a smirk that contained more sadistic pleasure than anything else. "Come now, do you really think that your son would be safer if Voldemort ended me? I know you aren't that stupid. For that matter, neither would you— _you_ brought me back."

Really, if Lucius would just put the same creativity into being a good Death Eater as he did into trying to get out of being one, then Tom doubted that he'd really even _need_ to try to get out of it.

"How about Goyle?" intervened Mulciber before Lucius could say or think anything to provoke Tom even further. "He's an idiot; he wouldn't even question why he'd been given the honor."

There was a pause before Lucius responded, but then he seemed to register what Mulciber had said and broke his gaze away from Tom's to shoot an incredulous glare at the older Death Eater. " _Goyle_? He probably wouldn't even understand that he _had_ been asked to do something."

"Crabbe then," said Mulciber.

It was settled quickly after that. Crabbe hadn't even been born when Tom had last been alive, and Tom hadn't been in his presence for several seconds altogether before he realized that he probably would have killed the man as a teenager if he'd had to share so much as a common room with him. He could tell solely from the man's thoughts that he was the absolute worst mix of pride and stupidity. He was too big of an imbecile to be of much use at anything but had an ego so large that he thought he could do pretty much everything.

And he clearly had no idea who Tom Riddle was.

He stomped into Abraxas's study behind Mulciber and, right after he mentally calculated the worth of the whisky lined up on the sideboard, he wondered why the hell there was a kid sitting behind Abraxas's desk.

Mulciber bowed sharply at the waist in deference, then straightened and turned towards the enormous presence behind him. "This is Crabbe, My Lord."

Tom had been too overwhelmed by the events in the Chamber of Secrets and by all of the sensations in his new body to have been able to fully appreciate Lucius's reaction when he'd first figured out who Tom was. He didn't have that problem with Crabbe. When the man's mind froze for several long seconds, Tom smirked to himself in sick pleasure. When his mind started racing with a mixture of disbelief and horror, Tom finally looked up from the notes he was writing and let his eyes settle on the troll hulking in his doorway.

Tom would never get tired of the sheer terror he produced in others. Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to think that he could rule or inspire loyalty by fear alone, but it was good enough for dealing with Voldemort's followers.

"What is this?" Tom broke the silence, carefully measuring out the cadence of his voice to imitate his older self. "Do you no longer respect your master enough to bow?"

Crabbe stood gaping at him, frozen with shock and fear. Mulciber rolled his eyes at the younger Death Eater but quickly stepped out of the line of fire, crossing the study to sink down in his usual chair.

"When I learned that many of my Death Eaters, supposedly the most loyal and dedicated of my followers, had claimed to be victims of the Imperius Curse instead of proudly standing by me, I confess that I was . . . disappointed."

Crabbe made a sort of choking sound and was finally propelled into action. He fell to his knees on the threshold and pressed his forehead very nearly to the floor. "Master . . . Master, please . . ."

Tom cast a wandless Cruciatus Curse, and Crabbe's enormous body promptly contracted and convulsed as he screamed.

Richard leaned over the arm of his chair to get a better look, while Lucius flinched almost imperceptibly and tried to make the way he sat further back in his seat look graceful. In large groups, Tom would have spoken the incantation aloud; he had found that there was a powerful psychological effect when onlookers actually heard an Unforgivable being cast. However, in such a small setting, with only Malfoy and Mulciber as witnesses, he felt that it was better to let Crabbe witness "Voldemort's" undiminished power. It was incredibly difficult to cast Unforgivables even using the incantation, much less nonverbally.

When the curse was finally lifted, Crabbe lay face down on the floor with his legs sticking out into the hallway. Movement was obviously excruciating for him, but he pulled his large arms under his body and hefted himself up with a groan.

"My Lord . . . Master . . . Forgive me . . ."

"Forgive you?" echoed Tom, allowing a mocking incredulity to seep into his voice. "Malfoy, do I forgive?"

Lucius jumped at being addressed. He jerked his head up to look at Tom, steadily keeping his gaze off the large man on the floor of his absent father's study. "No, My Lord."

"Should I make an exception for Crabbe, do you think?"

Malfoy swallowed, but his voice came out strong. "No, My Lord."

Tom turned back to Crabbe, who had managed to lift himself onto his haunches but was visibly shivering from the curse.

"Well, you heard him. However, I do allow my followers to repay their debts. Malfoy, for example, has given me his only son." Lucius jerked as if he'd been struck, but he didn't make a sound, and Tom acted as if he hadn't seen. He continued, "However, from what Draco tells me, your son would be a burden rather than a boon."

If Crabbe had doubted even for a moment that the strikingly handsome young man could be the Lord Voldemort he had known, all of his doubts were erased by Tom's grandstanding and casual cruelty. Mulciber, Tom could tell, was highly amused by the entire exchange, although he was doing his best to keep his face straight. For his part, Tom was more impatient than amused, which made Crabbe's next words all that much sweeter to him.

"Please, My Lord, I'll do anything!"

Tom allowed a monstrous smile to form on his full lips. "I do have something in mind, something that will test your resolve and be of great use to me if you succeed."

Crabbe's double chin quivered. "Anything, My Lord!"

"Very well," replied Tom, as if he'd had to seriously consider the matter. "I left something that has great value to me in the depths of an Albanian forest. The place is dangerous, corrupted by Dark magic that has likely attracted Dark creatures, but if you can retrieve it for me then I will consider part of your debt repaid."

Crabbe blinked slowly, and Tom fancied that he could almost see the wheels attempting to turn among the cobwebs of the man's mind. "But . . . what is it?"

"A piece of myself, you could say," Tom told him. "I cannot tell you what form it has taken or where it might be hidden exactly. Part of your task is to identify it."

It was all bullshit, of course—Tom just needed Crabbe to get close enough for Voldemort to possess him—but it seemed to satisfy Crabbe's curiosity. Or else he was just too confused to come up with any more questions.

"This is very important, Crabbe. Pay very close attention so that you remember what I've said exactly." Tom leaned forward in his chair and caught Crabbe's dull brown eyes with his own glowing ones. "I do not want this . . . _item_ to be harmed. I want it here with me at Malfoy Manor. It is an integral component of my future plans, and I will not be able to succeed without it. Your only job is to get it here."

He wasn't sure that Crabbe took in the whole message, but it was undoubtedly stored in his memory, and that was what was important. Voldemort would see it and would hopefully be intrigued enough to come to Wiltshire peacefully, if only to see what Tom had to say. And when he arrived . . . Tom would cross that bridge when he came to it.

* * *

The fact that Voldemort was likely to make an appearance at Malfoy Manor soon, for good or ill, had Tom wearing the Horcruxes he could directly on his person. If Voldemort did decide to attack him, he wouldn't be able to try to destroy Tom without destroying three of his other Horcruxes as well. Tom was wearing the locket around his neck and had the tiara tucked into the inside pocket of his robes, but he had been putting off placing the ring back on his finger for days.

He could protect himself from the Horcrux as long as he was in control of his faculties, but he could not guarantee that he would always be in completely control of his faculties. For example, Voldemort might try to possess him or just attack him, and Tom did not want to find out how it would feel if the Horcrux took the opportunity to attack him at the same time.

He knew that he could not be ripped out of his body—his vessel—by conventional means, but certainly it was possible to do it by unconventional means. After all, the diary had once been his vessel, and now it was not. The ring Horcrux was pretty much mentally intact, so if it was possible for Tom to be ripped out of his body then the ring was certainly capable of figuring out how. It wasn't as if the Horcrux had anything else to do with his unlimited time.

On the other hand, the risk of not wearing the ring was even greater than the risk of wearing it. Tom did not have Hufflepuff's Cup, so he was already down one Horcrux. At the moment, he judged that the risk was much greater that Voldemort would decide it was worth destroying three Horcruxes as long as he had two (the ring and the cup) left, than that the ring would figure out a way to harm him any time in the immediate future.

Tom still wasn't looking forward to facing the Horcrux, though. It wasn't that he was afraid; he generally did not feel fear, with his near death in the Chamber of Secrets being the only exception in his memory. It was just that he didn't know what to expect, and he hated not being in control.

Finally, he decided that he couldn't justify waiting anymore, and after he had settled himself into his luxurious bed he reached towards the ring on the bedside table. He could feel the Horcrux's energy licking at his hand as he drew closer to it, and when he finally ran one long finger over the cool metal, magic sparked between them.

Sweet Salazar, Tom had forgotten how fantastic— _orgasmic_ —the pain felt.

He allowed himself a groan and sunk bank into the pillows as he slid the Horcrux onto his finger.

The Little Hangleton cemetery was the same as it had always been. The Angel of Death guarded the elaborate graves of Tom's father and grandparents at the highest point of the sloping graveyard. Below them on three sides were a maze of other graves ranging from above-ground marble crypts to simple headstones that had begun to sink into the ground. Up the hill and some distance away, Riddle House loomed over the family's estate, which abutted the cemetery on one side.

"You came back," said the Horcrux from behind Tom, where he seemed to have appeared as if from thin air. "I thought you had taken what you wanted and abandoned me back where you found me."

"Are those yew trees?" asked Tom.

He couldn't sense the Horcrux's surprise, as the other Tom had his senses as closed as off as possible, but the long pause was a dead giveaway. Then, the Horcrux only said, "What?"

"Those trees," Tom repeated, pointing at the small wooded area along the stone wall at the graveyard's border, which he had only just noticed, "are they yew? I can't tell from this distance."

The Horcrux seemed distinctly annoyed now.

"Yes, I think," he said more sharply than necessary. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Oh, nothing," Tom said easily. He finally turned to face this other version of himself, meeting the dark eyes with his own, which he could not will to be red while inside of the Horcrux's mindscape. "Yes, I came back. If Lord Voldemort doesn't know that I exist and where I am now, then he will soon. I have to keep you with me for added security."

The Horcrux nodded, but the look on his face was inscrutable. He took a step backwards and hoisted himself up onto their grandfather's sarcophagus. Since he hadn't been attacked yet and the Horcrux seemed as placid as Tom had ever seen him, he figured that there wasn't any attack coming at the moment. He was sure the Horcrux couldn't possibly be operating without some sort of plan, but he would never figure out what it was if he resisted. The Horcrux would be wary now and would not easily let himself be lulled into a false sense of security again, but nonetheless the best option was to play along.

He followed suit and lifted himself onto the cool stone next to the Horcrux. Their shoulders and knees bumped, but neither pulled away.

After several minutes of silence, the Horcrux said, "You don't have to come here, even if you have to keep me on you. You could keep our minds entirely separate if you wanted. You proved that last time."

"I could," acknowledged Tom, "but it takes a lot of effort and I would rather you simply cooperated. I have much better things to focus on than _you_ , especially when you don't really have a choice, in the end, besides to accept me, since nothing you can do will hurt me."

The last was a lie, of course. The Horcrux could certainly cause him pain, even if he could not win their battles.

"I hate you," the Horcrux said flatly.

"I hate you, too," assured Tom.

The Horcrux snorted. "However, I do not want to be stuck here alone forever. I thought you were never coming back, and it was worse than before because I know now what it's like to have company."

They lapsed back into silence. Tom's eyes traveled back to the little copse of trees at the property line. He measured the branches with his eyes and started to firm up the plans that had begun to form in his mind, although he knew that in the real world it was fifty years later and they had all grown out far beyond what they were here in the Horcrux's memory.

Finally, the Horcrux asked, "So did you come to sit here or to fuck?"

A startled laugh escaped Tom's mouth before he could stop it. He knew that they were never going to talk about their past or the current situation beyond what had already been said. Tom—they—didn't work that way. If he had come here, he supposed it could have been to fuck, even if he hadn't thought about it that way when he'd made the decision to come. Certainly the Horcrux, if he was still anything at all like Tom himself, might just be arrogant enough to believe that Tom craved him enough to come back here for that.

And what the hell? If he had already sold his body once then he could do it again. It wouldn't even be that difficult to fake desire, since it _had_ felt rather good in the end.

Instead of answering verbally, he leaned over and sealed his mouth against the ice cold column of the Horcrux's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Citation: Tom's conversation with Crabbe is inspired by his first conversation with the Death Eaters after he's resurrected, in GoF Chapter 33, "The Death Eaters."
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> Author's Notes: I'm sorry for the major delay. Thank you to everybody who commented. I think that I replied to everybody, but I'm sorry if I missed anyone.


	18. Means and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The means are just as important as the ends.

St. Mungo's had the same off-white walls and bland floor tiles as any other hospital Tom had ever seen. He'd have thought that wizards would try to make it a bit more inviting and bit less sterile.

It stirred up anger and helplessness in him that he'd thought were long since forgotten. Tom had only been four, maybe five, the last time he'd been in a Muggle hospital; he'd discovered shortly afterward that he could control his magic, and he hadn't been vulnerable after that. He hadn't thought about it since he was eleven and the Hogwarts nurse had fixed the bone that hadn't quite healed properly under the substandard Muggle care the orphanage had been able to afford him.

Now Tom could almost feel the ache in the wrist, like a phantom pain, and he scowled for just a moment before wiping his expression blank again. He was here to permanently drive Molly Weasley insane, not to relive moments of childhood weakness.

He refocused on his surroundings. He didn't think that anybody would recognize him, but there were bound to be a few Mediwizards or support staff members who had known him as a student, so he couldn't be too careful. As a Horcrux, no ordinary magic that was supposed to alter his vessel could take hold of him—just like his diary had been protected from water damage when little Ginny had thrown him into the toilet, his body now was protected from physical damage as well. Unfortunately, Horcrux magic tended not to discriminate between things like Burning Charms and Slicing Hexes, and things like Polyjuice Potion and Transfigurations.

He was stuck doing things the Muggle way. He'd let his hair fall across his forehead rather than arranging it properly, and he was wearing a Gryffindor-scarlet sweater and keeping his face ducked down while he slouched his shoulders. It was unlikely that anyone who had gone to school with hi would recognize him, besides his own Knights, and anyone who _did_ happen to notice him would probably think, at most, that Tom Riddle must have somehow ended up with a shy grandson after he'd fallen off the face of the earth fifty years ago.

And Draco had verified earlier that morning, during breakfast, that Dumbledore had been at the school. It was unlikely that he would have left to visit St. Mungo's since then.

All in all, Tom figured that his plan would go off without a hitch.

The wizarding world was even less equipped to deal with psychological maladies than the Muggle world—that was probably why nobody had recognized anything odd about Tom when he'd arrived from the orphanage, and why nobody had thought to see to Harry Potter's mental wellbeing despite all he had experienced and his frequent adventures that Tom could only assume were poorly executed suicide attempts. As such, there was no wing or floor dedicated to psychiatric cases.

Mrs. Weasley had been placed on the fourth floor, in a double room next to the Janice Thickey ward, which housed patients whose minds had been seriously addled by spell damage. She had covered her side of the shared room in all sorts of knitted things and homemade quilts, in case Tom needed another reason to want to torture her and then kill her.

And hadn't she been from a good pureblood family before she'd married the blood traitor? Tom had always striven to have better and more of everything, whether he'd had to steal, cheat, lie, torture, or kill to get it. And Molly Prewett had given up a relatively comfortable life and the chance to barter her pure blood in marriage to someone who could have given her anything she wanted, just so she could spend her life knitting tea cozies? It was unfathomable.

He could remember that poor Ginny had wanted more than her family had been able to give her. She'd had the misfortune of dreaming about Harry Potter, of course (not to mention the misfortune of trusting Tom), so she hadn't shown much better judgment than her mother. Tom wondered whether any of her siblings had similar aspirations of greatness and made a mental note to ask Draco about the other Weasley children.

Molly was propped up in an uncomfortable looking chair just inside the door, surrounded by yarn in various dull oranges and browns. He couldn't imagine why—those colors did nothing for her hair or complexion, or anybody else's for that matter. She took his sudden appearance in her room in stride, at least. His deliberately boyish appearance did have that advantage. She tried to smile, a pitiful thing that was brittle around the edges.

"Hello, dear. Are you here for poor Mrs. Nettles?" They both looked at the woman in the bed on the far side of the room. Her head was lolling against her pillow, and though her eyes were open she didn't seem to see anything. Molly sighed and leaned forward to pat Tom's hand. "Well, I'm sure she would appreciate it, dear, if she were in her right mind."

Tom thought that Molly Weasley had even less tact than Draco Malfoy, which was rather sad given that she was actually _trying_ to be comforting.

He struck like a snake, shooting his hand out to wrap his longer fingers around her retreating wrist. She tried to gasp, but the breath seemed to get trapped somewhere in her throat so that it came out as a sad, strangled kind of sound. He leaned down so that he was level with her and caught her gaze in his.

"I'm here for you."

"For me?" she choked out.

Molly had once been a formidable woman; Tom had always gotten that impression from Ginny's stories of her family, and he could see it now hidden somewhere in the ruins of her half-broken mind. He was determined to trample on even the ruins of anything she used to be.

He smiled.

"You see, Molly, you were the last thing your daughter thought about. She was so sorry, and she wanted so badly for you to know that."

The woman made a strangled, wounded sound from the back of her throat. "Ginny?"

And then Tom was inside her mind, and everything that had happened with her daughter was playing out with all the perfect detail of Tom's memory.

" _Pansy Parkinson made fun of my secondhand robes today, and all the Slytherin girls and even some of the Ravenclaws laughed. I was so ashamed, Tom!_ "

" _No one's ever understood me like you, Tom._ "

A girl in a threadbare nightgown walked barefoot across the wet grass, the moonlight catching the copper in her hair so that had somebody only _looked_ they would have seen her. But nobody saw her or heard her, and then her small hands wrapped around the first rooster's throat and Tom knew he had complete control.

" _Dear Tom, I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there._ "

The Weasley girl had to lean up on her tiptoes and reach as high as she could until her arms and stomach stretched uncomfortably with the effort, but she managed to get the cat stuck up on the wall sconce above her head.

" _There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad . . . I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!_ "

" _It's you! It's always been you! What have you done to me?!_ "

" _Why, Tom? Just stop, please… Tom, please. Why are you doing this to me?_ "

But even though she stopped writing in the diary—even though she wrapped it in the old nightgown that had been covered in paint and shoved it down into the deepest, darkest corner of her trunk and tried to forget about it—she couldn't escape. She took the diary out of its hiding place and carried it with her, holding it close to her chest with one arm while she used her other hand to write the message of her own demise.

Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.

"Wha—where—?" She looked around wildly, eyes growing wider with every passing moment and every new stone she saw. She spun so quickly that she nearly lost her balance, but she came up just short when she saw him. "Who are… _Tom_?"

Tom smiled for the first time in fifty years. Well, to be fair, it was the first time he'd been corporeal at all for that long.

"Hello, Ginny."

She knew enough to be terrified but not enough to fear him as much as she should. Or perhaps that was just her Gryffindor bravery. "Tom… why did you bring me here? You have to let me go!"

"I can't do that," he replied evenly. He could feel her essence flowing slowly but steadily into him from the connection he'd so carefully crafted between them since over the long months. But it wasn't enough, not yet.

"Let me go! Please let me go! I won't tell anyone, I swear, just please let me—"

"Oh, Gin," he said almost softly as he let his ghostly, partly corporeal fingers grasp her shoulders, "I will never let you go."

She didn't have time to respond before he closed the distance between them and pressed his icy mouth to her slack lips. He had not been at all certain that it would work, but surely if that was how Dementors did it then there must be something to the whole kissing thing. Fortunately, it seemed to come to him almost naturally; he couldn't say now, looking back on it, exactly how he'd done it, but he had felt her soul fluttering inside of her and had gathered it to himself just as easily as he had always gathered his magic inside his own body.

It was rather painful, actually. Seemingly more so for Tom than for Ginny.

When he finally couldn't take it anymore—seconds, minutes, maybe hours later—he pulled back with a gasp that didn't quite catch in his half-formed lungs and let her limp body fall to the Chamber floor. It wasn't complete, not yet. He could still feel just the slightest tendrils connecting his soul to the girl's, and connecting his body with the diary. But he could feel those connections lessening with every passing second. Now he only had to wait for Harry Potter to come, as he knew the boy would.

When Tom pulled back from Molly Weasley, her eyes were almost a perfect mirror of how Ginny's had looked when the girl had realized that she was going to die.

He had been worried, at least on some level, that Molly would fight back or be consumed with the need for revenge and regain some of her spark, and then he would have had to change his whole plans around and he would have been quite irritated. Fortunately everything went as he had hoped, and the woman sagged bonelessly in her chair and stared forward with sightless eyes.

"Ginny…" she moaned. "Oh, my _Ginny…_ Dead. Dead dead dead."

"Oh, Ginny isn't dead, Mrs. Weasley."

She gasped and her eyes seemed to regain their focus. They were full of such hope and longing that it made Tom want to vomit. "Not… not dead?"

Tom took a seat on the footstool resting in front of Molly's chair, taking a moment to situate himself comfortably and brush his hair out of his eyes before he looked back into her face.

"No, not dead at all. Ginny can never die," he said matter-of-factly. Molly leaned forward until they were only a half a foot apart, and Tom could smell the mixture of Calming Draught and mint that lingered on her breath. She made a wordless sound from the very center of herself, and Tom patted her knee kindly and offered a sympathetic expression. "Of course she can't. I took her soul."

Molly screamed so loudly that it probably would have hurt Tom's ears had he been human and not just a physical manifestation of a Horcrux inhabiting a vessel created using the soul and magical essence of the woman's only daughter. Undoubtedly the hospital staff would have come running had he not completely shielded the room beforehand. Mrs. Nettles jolted in her bed, but her eyes were no more lucid than they had been before.

Tom patted Molly's knee again while he carefully aimed his wand at her temple.

"Oh, sure," he continued calmly so that he had her full attention on himself and not on what he was doing with his wand, "her body expired, what with it lying in the Chamber for so long, but that hardly matters because it hadn't, you know, had anything inside it." He chuckled once, then glanced up from the clock to frown at her. "Well, even if you cannot appreciate what I am saying, surely you can appreciate this."

He reached towards the table between her chair and her bed and picked up her clock so that she could see. If it were possible, she went even paler than before.

Tom set it back on the table from whence it had come and leaned back to admire his handiwork. "Now it's more accurate, you see. Ginny isn't 'Dead,' but she _is_ in 'Eternal Torment.'"

Naturally he was making it all up as he went along. Tom knew not a thing about souls other than that they could be used to make Horcruxes and to bring Horcruxes back to some semblance of life. It was entirely likely that poor little Ginny had ceased to exist when Tom had taken her soul, or that even if she did exist it was not any form of conscious existence. But it all worked out so much better if Molly spent the rest of her days seeing that her daughter was in Eternal Torment.

Only Molly could see that on the clock, of course. It was just an illusion created in her mind. In the same part of her mind, in fact, where his presence and their entire conversation and everything he had shown her from his memories were locked away so that nobody else would ever be able to find them except for Molly herself, who would no doubt spend most of her time dwelling on them.

He couldn't have fiddled with the clock itself, because her friends or family or Healers might have eventually noticed that it had been tampered with. But her mind was already such a mess, and he was skilled enough at mind manipulation, that he would be beyond surprised if anybody ever figured out what had happened.

* * *

The civil trial of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, on behalf of their son Draco, against Rubeus Hagrid and Albus Dumbledore began on a chilly Tuesday morning in the beginning of October. Tom wished desperately that he could go, but he knew that it would be impossible to disguise himself well enough that Dumbledore wouldn't recognize him, even in a crowded courtroom.

Being a Horcrux was a bit of a disadvantage sometimes after all.

Lucius assured him that it would be rather boring anyway. The trial was only about whether Hagrid had been reckless in allowing third years to handle hippogriffs, and whether Dumbledore had been negligent in hiring and supervising Hagrid. The investigative hearings and possible criminal charges would come later, after the Malfoys won this trial and set the stage for them.

Malfoy had carefully choreographed all of it for maximum effectiveness.

Tom spent a few hours in the library meticulously designing complex runes, but at some point he had to acknowledge that he was too restless to trust himself to do the job properly. He briefly considered going out and collecting a new plaything—he was really missing his old Muggle one since he'd accidentally killed it—but he decided that he wouldn't have time to properly enjoy it after Voldemort showed up.

He was getting impatient to visit both Hogwarts and Diagon Alley, but it was too dangerous to risk being discovered quite yet. Unlike St. Mungo's, he knew that the school was full of people who would recognize him on sight. And there was no point taking the risk in Diagon Alley when he hadn't even prepared all of the materials he would need yet.

Finally, after exhausting all of the other appealing options, he found himself entering the little cottage where he kept his pet Mudblood. It had been a couple of weeks since he'd last visited her, and he hoped that she was feeling even more forgiving towards him now that she'd had that long to spend with her parents as they got used to the environment outside of the closet they'd been imprisoned in for months. If Tom could just get the stage set for Voldemort to make his entrance, then he knew he could easily hoodwink Potter's Mudblood into trusting him, or maybe even more.

When he entered the cottage, the Grangers were seated around the table enjoying a late lunch. The girl had stacked all of the books she wasn't working on in a corner of the small sitting area, and the one she was reviewing and her parchments had been carefully arranged at one end of the table so that the family could gather around the other end.

Mrs. Granger reared backwards in her seat when she saw him, but she threw one arm in front of her daughter as if that would do any good.

Tom supposed he would never understand any feeling as strong as the maternal instinct that made a mother throw herself in front of her child even when she knew it was hopeless. After all, his own mother hadn't even cared enough to keep herself alive to meet him, so how could he be expected to feel or understand any such bond?

Mr. Granger, who was facing away from the door, spun as he rose from his seat, his chair clattering on the tiled floor behind him. The man's eyes burned with unsuppressed fury, and his entire face was tense with the want to do something.

"Dad!" Hermione said sharply, before Tom had to decide whether it would seriously injure his plans if he were to react to the man's aggression. "Daddy, go into the other room."

Her parents clearly did not want to leave their daughter alone with Tom, although he couldn't imagine why not. She'd been meeting him alone for months now. He probably wasn't going to kill or anything today when he'd managed not to do it so far. With only a raised eyebrow to show his mingled confusion and amusement, he stood casually next to the door and watched as the Mudblood frantically but firmly herded her parents into the home's single bedroom. Finally, with one last reassurance that she would be safe, she pulled the bedroom door closed and let out a sigh as she leaned her back against it.

"I'm honored that you feel safe with me," he told her, his tone quite serious even if his eyes glinted with humor.

She squinted her eyes up at him from beneath her growing curls, weighing his mood. After a few moments, she seemed to judge how far she could push him today, and she said, "I feel secure in the knowledge that if you were going to kill me, you would have done it already." She straightened and glanced backwards at the bedroom door, where they both knew her parents were listening. "Could you…?"

Tom shrugged easily and lifted his hand to magically give them privacy. She really ought to have asked _would_ he, but he was not of a mind to antagonize her today, so he refrained from saying as much.

"It would be more accurate to say that if I currently had a good reason to kill you, I would have already acted on it," he informed her. "For the moment, you are worth more alive."

At the beginning of her captivity, the Mudblood undoubtedly would have been terribly riled by that comment and it would have set Tom's plans back. Now she accepted it for the bald statement of fact it was and appeared unaffected as she crossed the narrow space and sunk down onto the loveseat in the sitting area. According to her thoughts, she actually appreciated his honesty! It really was amazing how the shift in her feelings from open hatred to disgruntled curiosity had affected the way she perceived the things he said and did. If he had still needed confirmation that he was handling the girl effectively, that would have been more than enough.

She nodded as if she had just confirmed something for herself that she'd suspected for a while. "You want me to join you so that you can use me against Harry."

Tom chose a chair on the other side of a small coffee table from Granger's loveseat, keeping his face impassive.

"I would prefer for you to join me rather than to see your mind wasted on the trite simplifications that others would use to limit you."

She pursed her lips, partly in disapproval of his characterization of her friends and the adults she respects and partly to try to mask how much it stroked her ego to have him praise her intelligence.

"You don't seriously think that I will become a Dark witch?" she asked finally in a shrill, incredulous voice. "I'm a Light witch!"

Tom allowed himself to let out a single sharp laugh. "A Light witch? Pray tell me, Granger, what exactly is a Light witch?"

"A witch who only practices Light magic, of course!"

He merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"And what is Light magic?" That seemed to startle her. She sat up straighter in her seat and opened her mouth several times as if to answer him, but clearly she could not think of exactly what to say. Tom gave her a wry smile. "Dark magic is defined based on the fact that the spells are normally used maliciously, but that is no real definition at all. It's about the intention of the caster, not the magic itself."

She blinked at him owlishly for several seconds before he could see her shrewd mind suddenly kick into a higher gear.

In a strong but not entirely confident voice, she said, "But there are some spells that can only be used to harm others no matter the intention of the caster, like the Unforgivables, so they would still be Dark magic even if you dislike the current definition. Since there are also spells that can only be used to help people, such as healing spells or—or the Patronus Charm, then it's only fair to have a corresponding label for Light magic."

"Ah, but whether a spell could be used to harm or to help is often a matter of creativity or subjective philosophical determinations, not objective fact," Tom replied easily.

He kept his tone even and engaging but was careful to strip away any inflections that might have seemed angry or argumentative, and she seemed to be paying proper attention.

"I could use the Killing Curse, for example, to give a person or an animal an easy death. We might disagree about whether death is morally correct in a given situation, but surely you can agree that here are at least some situations where a quick, painless death would be a mercy. And there are some situations where, although you might vehemently oppose the death, you could agree that if you can do nothing to prevent it then at least it would be better for it to be instantaneous and pain-free than the alternative. For example, if the law determines that an animal must be executed because it is a danger to humans, surely you can see how the Killing Curse might be preferable over the imprecise, sometimes ineffective blow of an axe."

She bit her lip in silent contemplation, and Tom could see that she was carefully considering everything he said. He allowed himself a mental pat on the back and continued.

"The Imperius Curse, of course, could be used to prevent someone from continuing some dangerous or harmful activity, perhaps even as an alternative to sentencing the worst sort of criminals or dangerous animals to death. It takes many witches or wizards working together to Stun a dragon, and using something like the Conjunctivitis Curse to blind it would hardly stop it from causing terrible damage until you could properly subdue it. A single skilled practitioner of the Imperius Curse could subdue the beast. The Cruciatus Curse is perhaps the one you will have the most trouble envisioning, because I imagine that you will have a difficult time agreeing that torture could ever be justified in any situation. However, if torture were used, the Cruciatus Curse, like the Killing Curse, would likely be the most humane method—it does not cause any actual harm to its victims, unless the caster allows the victim to flail into something or leaves the curse on for literally _hours_."

"But how could someone use healing spells or the Patronus Charm to _hurt_ people?" she asked softly. "You can't hurt somebody by healing them or keeping Dementors away from them!"

Tom grinned at her, flashing his white teeth and allowing her to admire the effect on his handsome face. "You could answer your own question if you would only allow yourself, for a moment, to think like someone who might want to use those spells to hurt others. It is very important to be able to step into others' shoes."

Granger visibly swallowed, but she took the challenge for what it was. After several long moments, she released her worried lip from between her teeth and glanced up at him.

"I suppose that one could use healing spells to prolong torture."

There were several other more creative uses that Tom could think of just off the top of his head, such as purposefully healing an injury incorrectly and in a painful or disfiguring way, or placing some harmful object inside a person's body and then healing the incision so it stayed inside. He figured that pointing them out to the Mudblood would only make her focus on how evil he was and on whether he'd ever done anything like that, which would have gone completely against his current goals.

"Indeed, and if one wanted to use Dementors against others, the only way it would be possible would be to use a Patronus to protect oneself. That is what we currently do at Azkaban: the guards use Patronuses to protect themselves and also to keep the Dementors focused on the prisoners," he pointed out.

Of course, there was another way besides the Patronus to avoid the effects of Dementors. Tom had long hypothesized that he would not be affected by them, because his worst memories merely enraged him. They certainly didn't cause him any guilt or shame or emotional pain. But he supposed one had to be born with that particular ability.

"That's true," she answered, much more confident now that she felt like she was able to contribute to the discussion.

Tom decided to pull the rug out from under her feet again.

"Speaking of which, Granger"—he was sure to address her personally, as it was so rare for him to use her name—"I don't see any righteous indignation on the part of these so-called Light wizards regarding the humane treatment of the prisoners in Azkaban. Surely we can agree that whether a man has been sentenced to life for his crimes as a Death Eater or for a few months for stealing bread, he does not deserve to be starved and left to sit in his own filth, and to be literally driven insane by the Dementors."

Of course Tom could not possibly care any less about the treatment of Azkaban's inmates, but he could see that it made the Mudblood view him in a kinder light when she thought that he actually held some sort of morally upright opinion.

"You're right," she admitted. Her voice had taken on the kind of righteous indignation he'd mentioned before. "Well, if I ever have a chance, that is one of the things I will try to fix!"

Tom laughed as he rose from his rather uncomfortable chair. "If you ever get the chance, I'm sure that you will be a force to be reckoned with. Now, have you completed any assignments, or have you been spending all of your time with your parents?"

It would have been dangerous for her—or more likely her parents—had she not been able to give him anything, but she was not that irresponsible. Tom left the cottage with a stack of new parchments and a greater understanding of exactly how to manipulate Hermione Granger.

* * *

The trial lasted a full three days, and when it was over the Wizengamot awarded Draco five hundred Galleons for his medical expenses and pain and suffering, to be paid jointly by Dumbledore and Hagrid. The money was nothing to the Malfoys. Lucius had already had Draco pre-write a statement (with a certain amount of guidance, of course) and planned to inform the media the following morning that the family would be donating the money to Hogwarts, perhaps towards new facilities to house the animals used in Care of Magical Creatures.

"I hope that Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Hagrid will both resign their positions," Lucius's own rehearsed statement said. "Anyone who could, through such negligence and even outright recklessness, allow harm to come to any of our children is clearly not qualified to protect them. Of course, if they do not do the right thing and instead leave it up to the Board of Governors to decide, then I will naturally recuse myself from the decision. However, I trust that both men are honorable enough to take responsibility for their mistakes."

Tom could admit, if only in the privacy of his own mind, that he deeply respected Malfoy's political savvy and the near effortless way he had backed Dumbledore into a corner with only a few words.

He would probably hold off killing the man, if only so that Draco could learn from his father.

The two of them were in Tom's study discussing the next step in their campaign (a full investigation into events at the school in the past several years, and hopefully eventual criminal charges against Dumbledore) when the door opened without anyone having knocked first. They both turned towards the intruder in surprise, and in Tom's case a Cruciatus Curse ready at the tip of his fingers, and immediately stopped short after they saw who it was.

Crabbe had returned. Only he looked more like somebody else wearing a Crabbe-shaped suit that was many sizes too small. His entire body was tense and his movements obviously strained and lacking a bit of fine motor control. It was somewhat amusing—if anything in such a situation could actually have been amusing—since Crabbe was at least twice Tom's size, but clearly it was the volume of the magical essence that mattered and not the physical mass.

"Leave us, Lucius," Tom ordered rather sharply, yet in a much more controlled tone than he could really have hoped for given the circumstances.

Lucius assessed the narrow space between Crabbe's body and the doorframe rather dubiously and turned to give Tom a panicked, pleading sort of look.

Tom had no patience for such things.

"Enough," he barked. "Go. He won't harm you."

There was a _yet_ clearly implied at the end, but it remained unspoken. Tom couldn't guarantee it, of course, but he assumed that the other man—or spirit or whatever—was too interested in him to waste any time considering for the moment whether Malfoy deserved to be punished for his part in Tom's existence.

For his part, Lord Voldemort stepped further into the room with his eyes firmly boring into Tom's the entire way, letting Lucius squeeze by him and out the door unmolested. Tom was quite glad that it was impossible to miss seeing the gaudy Gaunt ring on his finger, and Slytherin's locket was visible between the undone top buttons of his shirt. It really let his other self know exactly where things stood.

It was probably very stupid on all different kinds of levels, but Tom really couldn't resist saying, "That looks incredibly uncomfortable."

Crabbe's body did not even blink; Tom personally would have felt a lot more comfortable if it had.

" _Jokes_!" hissed Voldemort in such mingled English and Parseltongue that it took even Tom a moment to decipher it. "You would _joke_?"

Tom thought that what he was feeling might be properly defined as apprehension. Not apprehension of Voldemort himself (he didn't even have his own body!), but rather apprehension about exactly how difficult it was to keep himself from crossing the room and flinging himself at the man. If he had thought that he'd gone a bit loony when he'd first been in the ring's presence, then it was only because he had not yet experienced being in the presence of the original soul. And if he had thought that the delicious licks of magic he'd experienced in the past had been addictive, then he would really have to watch himself around Voldemort.

He kept his expression and voice neutral when he replied, "You will have to forgive me. I am in a festive mood, as I just managed to effectively oust Dumbledore from Hogwarts."

Voldemort—Crabbe—tilted his head jerkily to one side and considered Tom silently for several long seconds.

Eventually, in that high, unnerving voice, he half-hissed, "Tell me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There actually is not a single mention of Light magic or Light wizards in the HP series. (If you don't believe me, pull up your e-books and search for those or similar terms.) I find this pretty annoying, because the whole concept of Dark magic is so important, and the whole conversation would be heavily influenced by the definition and whether there is actually "Light magic," as opposed to just non-Dark magic used for nice reasons most of the time.
> 
> Also AAAAAHH VOLDEMORT IS FINALLY BACK!
> 
> Thank you to everybody who commented! It always makes my day.


	19. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life and death repeat themselves, and the world continues to go round.

Tom was fairly certain that he had never experienced anything as bizarre as standing a few yards away from Voldemort. That was really saying a lot coming from somebody who had lived in a diary for fifty years, been rather thoroughly buggered by another version of himself, and sat in a room full of Molly Weasley's knitting. Maybe it would have been easier to handle had Voldemort been in somebody other than Crabbe, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

The need to touch Voldemort, to curl around him and crawl _inside_ of him, was a persistent itch beneath Tom's skin. He'd thought that it had been intoxicating to be around the Gaunt ring for the first time, but that didn't hold a candle to this.

He felt absurd.

He hoped that Voldemort felt something like the same way, but if he did then the man was incredibly able to conceal it.

Without warning, Voldemort took a step further into the room. Tom definitely did not jump in surprise like a first-year Hufflepuff.

"Dumbledore's popularity has taken a nosedive of late," Tom said abruptly, fulfilling Voldemort's request for information and hopefully distracting them both from his ridiculous reaction. "No doubt the public is still reeling from what happened during the last school year when I reopened Salazar's Chamber. Four students were petrified by the basilisk, and I killed two more plus a professor."

Voldemort never took his eyes off of Tom's face as he flicked the fingers of one of Crabbe's hands behind him to close the door. The Dark Lord's magical presence was palpable enough that Tom could sense even that simple thread of magic from across the room. He wanted to shudder in response, but he managed to suppress his reaction so that the only outward sign of it was a slight flaring of his nostrils.

The feelings he was experiencing were very nearly overwhelming, but Tom Riddle did not let _anything_ overwhelm him. Not even the presence of Lord Voldemort.

The entire interaction had taken mere seconds, and Tom went on with barely a pause.

"But truly we owe the headmaster's downfall to Lucius Malfoy and how terribly he's indulged his son. The boy is a spoiled little thing who has virtually no concept of boundaries, and he managed to insult a hippogriff and get attacked. Lucius, of course, has been instrumental in turning public opinion against Hagrid and, by extension, the headmaster who hired him to teach."

"Hagrid?" echoed Voldemort. "Dumbledore hired _Hagrid_ to replace Kettleburn?"

Tom was too fraught to laugh, but he managed a smirk.

Other than that brief moment of surprise, Voldemort did not seem at all amused or otherwise bothered by any emotion whatsoever. He continued to stare intensely at Tom's face with an unreadable expression.

Tom was acutely aware of the way they were both just standing there awkwardly. He didn't think he had ever felt particularly awkward in his life—he had always been self-assured and managed to control nearly every situation he'd encountered, or adapt and make the situation work for him even if he wasn't able to control it—but he'd felt nothing but awkward while in the presence of his older self, his master soul. It made him blabber like an idiot and feel unsure of himself. He decidedly hated it.

He glanced down, just for a moment, to gather his thoughts again.

When he looked back up, he realized at once that he had played right into Voldemort's hands. Tom only barely had time to think " _O_ _f course!_ " before Voldemort slammed into his mind.

Tom's body screamed, a raw, tormented thing that tore at his throat and made his toes curl, but his soul submitted with a whimper as Voldemort curled around and in and through every single part of him until there was no telling what was Tom and what was Voldemort. It was endless pleasure and unfathomable pain, and they shattered into a million pieces and reformed into a single whole a thousand times over.

Then he felt the sensation of being ripped out of his body, and he panicked and clawed at the thin tether that held his mutilated soul to his mortal vessel like a wild creature of pure instinct and no thought. He was being brutally torn away from himself and shoved into the diary, _alone alone he was alone and trapped_. The thing holding his soul into his body had been severed by his own Killing Curse and he was expelled formlessly into the ether and he couldn't touch or see or smell anything and his magic was gone and Oh, _Salazar_ , no, no, _nonono_ please _no anything else he would do anything, give anything, please God no…._

He was staring at the unchanging shelves of the Hogwarts library, which by now (however long "now" had been since he'd been shoved into the diary) had faded to a dreary sort of gray scale in his memory, and then he was screaming and throwing himself uselessly against the boundaries of his memories, because there was nothing else, just him and his own illusions. He would have screamed had he been able, but he could only drift in silence, unheard and unseen by anything or anyone, and he wasn't even sure he really existed anymore and maybe Horcruxes didn't really keep you alive but kept you both from living and from moving on.

 _August 19, 1992. Dear diary…_ It had been fifty years. _Fifty_ years. Five decades. The first human he was aware of encountering was a poacher who stumbled across the dank little patch of forest that he'd made his own, and he wasn't strong enough to possess the man no matter how much he hoped otherwise, but he did at least brush the man's mind closely enough to find out that it was 1988. _Seven years, he'd been without a body for seven years…_

He had never felt true fear before until the moment when Harry Potter brought the basilisk fang down towards his diary. He was intimately acquainted with the sick feeling of fear that permeated his mind as he was cast out of Quirrell's crumbling body in almost the same way he'd been cast out of his own a decade prior, and both times were because of Harry Potter.

He was staring at Crabbe, who was really his older self, with equal parts fascination and nausea. He was at once fascinated and sickened to see his young body standing before him, the very image of himself at sixteen.

He was suddenly in his body again, and his throat hurt and his ears hurt and everything hurt. Tom closed his mouth and stopped screaming and breathing and moving at all.

Voldemort hovered against him, half encompassing his body for several seconds longer, until the amorphous spirit finally lurched and stuttered across the floor to where Crabbe was moaning faintly and beginning to stir. It was Crabbe who screamed then, but only for a moment before his master took full control of his body again.

Tom could hear Crabbe's body taking faltering, rattling breaths. He stared up at the pattern on the ceiling and focused on the sound of the arrhythmic panting, using it to ground himself as he felt his burst eardrums heal and the blood flowing out of his nose slow to a trickle.

It could have been worse, much worse. Tom hadn't even had time to slip the ring off of his finger, which he'd always planned to do before Voldemort inevitably tried to possess him, but fortunately the Horcrux hadn't tried anything. Tom had feared he would. Further, the experience seemed to have functioned something like an extreme version of immersion therapy, so that although Tom could still feel the Dark Lord's magic and soul both calling to his own, the awareness was no longer accompanied by a desperate _need_ to be one with him. That was something greater than a small victory, at least.

Finally, when he felt completely recovered (at least physically), Tom let out the unnecessary breath he'd been holding inside his lungs.

"Have you got that out of your system?"

"Quite." Voldemort wheezed. It seemed to take a lot out of him to speak, but he took another rattling breath and asked on a shaky exhalation, "How?"

Tom propped himself up on his elbows and looked over at the other man, who was still laying prone, half on and half off the thick rug. The brief melding of their minds and bodies had obviously taken as much out of him as it had Tom, although Tom, being a Horcrux, was much better equipped to heal afterward.

"If it were possible to inhabit a Horcrux's vessel, I would've just shoved you into the diadem and let you spend eternity with that lunatic instead of with my excellent company."

Voldemort turned his head to shoot Tom a baleful glare, but he made no other move.

Tom was distantly worried that he wasn't actually _able_ to do anything further. It was disgusting what Voldemort had allowed himself to become. He was a shade of his former self, a shade of a man at all. But whatever he was, he was still the Dark Lord and Tom's older self, and if he was this overwhelming when he was little more than a spirit, then Tom could scarcely imagine what he would be like once he was restored to full strength.

With a great sigh, Tom levered himself up to his knees and shuffled across the parquet floor of Abraxas's office until he was looking down at Crabbe's broad, ugly face. Voldemort continued to glare up at him through Crabbe's eyes. Tom could imagine how distasteful it must be to be so weak in front of someone else, even if that someone else was, well, yourself.

Tom curled his tongue up against the back of his front teeth and said in Parseltongue, "You should rest."

There weren't exactly curse words in Parseltongue—most snakes simply avoided offending one another, and, in the first place, most snakes never had any reason to discuss anything beyond hunting and mating—but the intent behind Voldemort's answering hisses was quite clear. Tom had apparently been correct in his judgment that it was easier for Voldemort to hiss than to form English words in his weakened state, although communicating complex ideas in the serpents' language required rather a lot of ingenuity and liberal interpretation.

Despite Voldemort's angry hissing, there was no real heat behind it. They had experienced the best and worst of each other during their brief time rejoined as one soul and one mind, so there was no real reason to hide anything from each other. Other than out of sheer pride. Voldemort knew it too, and after another indistinct hiss, he deigned to reply.

"This body will break down in two or three days," he said. "I had hoped that your body would be compatible with my soul and magic, but it seems that I will need another form."

A few drops of the blood that had flowed from Tom's nose during their earlier encounter dripped down onto Voldemort's face as Tom leaned over him. The older wizard darted out his tongue to taste it.

Tom was not at all enthusiastic about Voldemort's announcement. He could only imagine that the other man planned to attach himself to the first wizard he encountered and drink gallons of unicorn blood to keep the poor sod viable. That wouldn't do at all. It was too unstable an arrangement, and anyway he couldn't allow the idiot to curse himself even further by spilling more blessed blood. Besides, the Mudblood girl's secondhand descriptions of Voldemort sticking out of the back of the professor's head were quite revolting just to think of, and Tom had no desire to witness it for himself.

He frowned and wiped away the droplets of blood that tickled his upper lip. "I hope you aren't planning to slaughter anymore unicorns."

Crabbe's lips twitched unpleasantly.

"No. That was only an option because it was Quirrell who drank the blood, not I," Voldemorted hissed, and Tom understood immediately that it had been _Quirrell_ who had needed the unicorn blood in order to sustain his body while Voldemort inhabited it. "I will not be a parasite again."

That was understandable. Tom supposed that it wouldn't be overly difficult to supply Voldemort with a constant supply of hapless victims who wouldn't be missed, as long as he wasn't too picky and didn't insist that his vessels be wizards.

"Fine," he replied, "but in the meantime you apparently need rest."

Voldemort was reluctant to let Tom levitate him down the hallways of the manor, but he was apparently even more reluctant to forego the pleasure of a luxurious bed in favor of the floor of Abraxas's office. It would have been impossible to transfigure anything quite as comfortable as the real thing. Fortunately, it seemed that the other inhabitants of the manor had seen fit to run as far away as possible, so only Tom witnessed the indignity.

* * *

Tom had never actually visited Little Hangleton or its cemetery during the day before. What looked sinister and a bit spooky at night was revealed by the mid-morning sun to be merely rundown and overgrown. The thatched roofs of some of the cottages were seriously thinning in places, and the cobblestones along the main street were in dire need of repairs. Tom didn't see anything worthy of his notice in the three minutes it took him to walk from one end of the village to the other, but he certainly drew attention from the inhabitants.

He'd known he would, of course—strange, attractive young men couldn't show up in tiny rural villages without drawing some attention. One woman, who looked like she would turn to dust and blow away if anyone sneezed near her, had probably the first clear thought she'd had in years when she thought for a moment that she was seeing Tom's father again. But she quickly put it down to having lost herself in memories of her youth, which she was doing more and more lately.

Tom offered her a smile just before he rounded the corner of the local bakery and headed down the road towards the church and the cemetery behind it. There was a risk that Dumbledore would eventually investigate Little Hangleton and discover that Tom had been there, of course, but at this point it would be delicious to watch the wizarding world at large accuse the man of making things up in order to stay relevant. Who would believe that an apparently sixteen-year-old Lord Voldemort had strutted down the center of a Muggle village in broad daylight?

And Lucius had already done a fantastic job of discrediting anything Dumbledore or Harry might say about the diary.

The important thing was that Tom hadn't seen any memories of Dumbledore having visited the village. It was possible that he had and Tom just hadn't encountered anyone who had seen him. Or that he had but Tom hadn't been able to access the relevant memories. Or that he had and had then modified the memories of anyone who had seen him. But Tom doubted it.

So Dumbledore probably didn't know about the other Horcruxes yet, or else he didn't know enough that he'd started searching for them.

The Little Hangleton graveyard was situated behind the church, running down the side of the gently sloping hill on which the village sat and spreading across the valley below. On its other side, Riddle House loomed over them both from the top of a taller hill. Although he'd only ever seen it at night, Tom could tell that the ring Horcrux's graveyard was still quite a nice place to be buried, at least in the wealthier sections. The present-day version, however, had clearly been without a dedicated groundskeeper for some time, and even the Riddles' elaborate statues and mausoleums were overgrown and starting to look a bit rickety.

Perhaps at one point Tom would have been interested in the graves of his father and grandparents, but he'd had enough of them by now. He'd _been shagged_ _on them_ by now, pressing his face into the grass and dirt of his father's grave and later scraping his knees and elbows on the rough patches of his grandfather's sarcophagus. He bypassed them now with barely a glance and carefully picked his way up the increasingly steep hill towards the crumbling stone wall that separated the cemetery from the grounds of the Riddles' manor.

There was a small grouping of trees along the boundary. Tom made his way towards an enormous tree at the center of the small wood, situated just on the other side of the boundary. It had a trunk at least five feet in diameter, from which grew a mass of curving, tangled branches that would have formed a beautiful canopy had the tree not been bare of leaves.

It was a yew tree. And it was perfect.

After a moment spent contemplating the best way to go about things, Tom climbed over the short stone wall and clambered up into the branches with as much grace as he could muster, which wasn't much. This was the first tree he'd ever climbed; he'd never been invited to join the other children, and he wouldn't have joined them even if they had ever asked. He got his shirt caught in the branches and tore it when he pulled free, and he kept scratching his skin against the bark, but eventually Tom reached the top, where the branches were thinnest.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he experimentally ran his hand across the wood and wrapped his fingers around some pieces, carefully freeing the parts that felt right to him.

"What are you doing up there?" demanded a gruff voice.

Tom had been so focused on his task that the sudden intrusion startled him, and he had to tighten his legs around the narrow limb, on which he was perched rather precariously, to keep himself from tumbling off it.

There was an old Muggle man standing several yards up the hill towards the house, one hand gripping a cane and the other curled into an angry fist at his side, craning his neck to glare up at the boy trespassing in the branches of his yew tree.

"I've told you lot time and again, I have!" he continued without waiting for a response. "You're to stay off this property!"

When Tom turned his focus to the old man, he got flashes of Muggle teenagers tearing up the lawns with their bicycles and throwing rocks through the windows of the manor house. Although the gardener—Frank, his mind supplied—couldn't imagine what new mischief was to be had by climbing trees, he was sure there was some. Behind the recent memories of petty vandalism lurked a far more sinister memory from a time long past, but still very much a constant part of the man's thoughts, of another teenager—tall, dark-haired, and pale—walking briskly and confidently up the drive towards the large front door of house on the night that the Riddles had been murdered just as they were about to sit down to a late Sunday supper.

Tom sucked a hiss in through his bottom teeth.

"Hold a moment and I will come down."

He wrenched the last of his sticks until it came free and added it to the bundle in the bag he wore across his body. Then he brought his leg over the branch and to the other side and, without a pause, leaped from the uppermost limbs. The Muggle hardly had the time to yell out in alarm before Tom landed at the base of the tree with barely a sound of exertion.

Had the ground seemed to sink slightly and spring back up under the boy's feet, as if he were a child jumping on a bed? The Muggle blinked and brought his free hand up to rub his eyes.

Tom allowed himself a brief smile of amusement as he stepped out of the shadows cast by the branches and fully into the autumn sun, where the Muggle gaped at him in still more astonishment, for he was the spitting image of the old master's son when he had been a young man. Tom caught the gardener's gaze with his own and pressed his own memories of that night fifty years ago into the Muggle's mind. The pinched, furious expression on his face as he stalked towards the house, filling in all of the details of his features that the Muggle's brief glimpse through his cottage window had not allowed him to discern; the unlocking spell he used to let himself inside without alerting any of the inhabitants or staff; the mixed shock and anger on the faces of his father and grandparents at the sight of him, which turned to incredulity and confusion when Tom raised his wand but quickly settled into unmitigated terror when he cast the first Cruciatus Curse of the evening.

When he released the Muggle's mind, Frank staggered backwards several steps and lost his footing. He landed on his ass in the overgrown grass, his arms and legs flailing briefly and his cane flying several feet away.

He stared up at the handsome trespasser with bulging eyes and stammered, "What—you—but—!"

Tom smiled again, the full grin with gleaming white teeth, which lately had sent the Granger girl into fits, and raised his wand for a practical demonstration.

That night, the inhabitants of Little Hangleton would be deeply amazed when a group of teenagers, who had gathered in the cemetery to smoke and snog among the gravestones, all came tearing up the hill together screaming in much the same way as the Riddles' maid had done just after dawn some five decades before.

The police from Great Hangleton would be all the more astonished when the medical examiner's report contradicted their original supposition that Frank Bryce, who would have turned seventy-six had he lived three more days, had suffered a heart attack or stroke while tending the grounds. No, the doctor insisted in her report, Mr. Bryce was as healthy as a man of his years could expect to be, aside from the arthritis afflicting his leg (and, of course, aside from the fact that he was dead). There was absolutely no sign of a heart attack or stroke or any other natural cause of death. The police discussed in hushed, nervous tones how the condition of the groundskeeper's body matched the condition of the three bodies at the center of the area's only unsolved murder case, in which the dead man had been the only suspect fifty years ago, right down to the expressions of abject terror on the Riddles' and Bryce's faces.

This time the sighting of a stranger—a pale, dark-haired youth—that everybody had believed Bryce had made up during the original investigation was corroborated by nearly a dozen residents of Little Hangleton, who all separately claimed to have seen such a person strolling casually down the main street of the village that morning.

The police were still quite sure that nobody could simply die of fright, and they were also quite sure that it couldn't have been the same teenager that Frank Bryce had insisted killed the Riddles in the summer of 1943, but the situation clearly warranted further investigation.

Dot, a lifelong resident of Little Hangleton who was nearing her ninety-eighth birthday, insisted that the stranger had looked so similar to Tom Riddle that they must have been directly related. She told one newly minted and slightly nervous member of the police force, who had not yet learned how to extract himself from over-eager witnesses, all about that business with Riddle and the tramp's daughter and the rumors of a pregnancy, but everybody dismissed her theories. Dot was prone to calling the baker's son by his grandfather's name and the curate by his predecessor's name, even though the baker's grandfather had been dead for forty years and the curate wasn't even related to the man who had held the position sixty years (and three curates) ago.

For their part, the other residents of Little Hangleton spent several evenings and nights at the village's only pub, the Hanged Man, discussing the events. They ended up split nearly evenly down the middle between those who thought that a whole lot of ado was being made out of Frank's clearly natural death, and those who thought that the only reasonable explanation was that the vengeful spirit of Tom Riddle had given the gardener his comeuppance for the triple murder he'd committed fifty years before.

* * *

Tom was more than a little miffed to find Voldemort's bedroom empty when he returned to the manor. He briefly checked his own room, just in case the older man had decided that he ought to have the best guest bedroom, before giving in to the desire to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation and heading back down the stairs to search for the erstwhile Dark Lord.

He eventually picked up on a sharp feeling of disgust and horror, which he followed to a parlor on the first floor with overstated furnishings and an ornate gold-leaf ceiling. Voldemort was there, sitting straight-backed in a chair and casually reading a book. So too were Lucius and Narcissa, who were both doing a poor job of pretending to do anything other than watch Voldemort out of the corners of their eyes.

The horror was obviously coming from Narcissa, who had never been much in the presence of her husband's master during the last war. The disgust was coming from Lucius, because Voldemort was wearing his father's body.

Tom clenched his jaw for a moment. Then he deliberately relaxed his muscles and strode fully into the room.

"Well, I'm glad to see that you're up and about," he announced, only just keeping his annoyance from infiltrating his tone.

Voldemort glanced up from his book and arched one of Abraxas's well shaped brows. "I am sure that you aren't."

Neither of the Malfoys dared look up. Lucius pretended to be completely engrossed in his newspaper and Narcissa wrote her letter so diligently that Tom was sure her script would be perfect, but Tom could vividly hear their terrified thoughts at the exchange. He ignored them and settled himself comfortably into the chair across from his older self's, allowing himself to adopt a much more relaxed posture than Voldemort.

"You are mistaken." Tom took a moment to pick a bit of bark off his trousers and then folded his hands over his knee. "I care a great deal about your health, in fact. That is why I am so concerned to see you wearing Abraxas."

Voldemort placed his open book face down across his lap and stared at Tom silently for a few moments. Finally, he said, "I saw no reason why I should not use his body. He is older than I would prefer, but his form has been meticulously well preserved. Since you have not seen fit to kill him for his betrayal, he has just been gathering dust in your… playroom."

"Well, I had planned to use him in your resurrection ritual, but if you would prefer to possess him until he wears out instead, then I am sure we can find some other true pure blood who won't be missed." Tom offered his other self a placid smile. "Perhaps one of the Weasleys? There are more than enough of them left, and the girl did well enough for my ritual."

Although his wife maintained her admirable stoicism, Lucius could not quite repress the startled noise that worked its way up from his throat.

The sound caused Voldemort's head to swivel towards the pair.

"Leave us," he ordered quietly.

They did not need to be told twice. They barely managed to offer proper bows in both Voldemort's and Tom's directions before they rushed out the door with as much dignity as they could manage. It was obvious that they would have sprinted out of the room if Malfoys did such things.

Voldemort turned Abraxas's flinty gaze back on Tom. However, Tom had taken all of that day and the previous night to compose himself and steel his mind, so he did not let his older self affect him nearly as much as he had during their first meeting. He put his uncharacteristic reactions the previous evening up to his complete shock at Voldemort's abrupt arrival.

Now, he merely stared back.

Eventually Voldemort's lips twitched, though Tom couldn't tell whether it was in anger or amusement, and he asked, "Are you going to elaborate on this ritual you have planned?"

"Certainly, since you were kind enough to ask. I have learned through my experiments that the method I used to create my body in fact created a new vessel for me. I have been effectively transferred from my diary to the body you see now—"

"Which is why you feel the need to protect your body by keeping all of the other Horcruxes on your person," Voldemort interrupted.

"Quite," Tom replied in a clipped tone, his mind flashing briefly to how he'd had to temporarily stash the diadem in the Gaunt shack before he'd gone into Little Hangleton, just in case Voldemort woke up while he was gone. "I have further confirmed, through more experiments and an examination of my memories, that until the very moment that Ginny Weasley's life force was destroyed, the diary was still my vessel."

There was no need for him to elaborate further, as Voldemort immediately caught on and interjected again. "You want to use one of the Horcruxes to create a body in the same way that you did."

"And for you to take possession of the body just before the moment of completion, yes," confirmed Tom.

Voldemort leaned back in his chair and brought his fingers up to steeple in front of his mouth. He stared straight ahead, seemingly at nothing, as Tom counted the ticks of the antique clock that stood in one corner of the parlor. When he blinked and refocused his eyes on Tom, their natural gray was swirling with red.

"How do you know that such a thing is possible? I might not be any more able to take over the vessel just before the ritual is complete than I was able to possess your vessel. And I must point out that, although I do not often make mistakes—"

"Except in matters relating to Dumbledore. And creating Horcruxes. And hiding them. And Harry Potter," Tom felt behooved to say.

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed vibrantly red for a moment before the color receded partially back into Abraxas's gray.

"Although I do not often make mistakes," he repeated, sharply enunciating each word, "there remains the possibility that I will wait a moment too long, and the Horcrux will claim its vessel before I can."

"I don't know with certainty that it is possible, which is why I sent Crabbe for you now rather than later. Although I am good—well, I don't have to tell _you_ how good I am—I am not a master in arithmancy, ancient runes, or ritualistic Dark magic. Yet," he added, because he knew that he would be eventually. "In any case, I don't see the harm in trying. Certainly nothing we can do could relegate you to a worse state than you're in now. If it doesn't work, then we will simply regroup and find another way. And if the Horcrux manages to inhabit its vessel, then I will be there waiting to destroy it."

"You are serious," said Voldemort. His tone was bland, but nonetheless it was clear that he could hardly believe it.

Tom met his eyes, direct and unflinching. "I am serious. I want to work with you, not against you. I want to learn from you."

Voldemort regarded him curiously for a moment before he asked, "What do you propose that I would get out of such an arrangement?"

The answer was incredibly easy. In fact, it had all but been confirmed during their conversation, when Voldemort had been able to keep his cool, for the most part, despite Tom intentionally provoking him. And if he was this much improved after less than a day in proximity to his Horcruxes, then hopefully prolonged exposure would allow him to reach the same level of clarity that Tom himself had reached after he'd found the others.

Tom allowed his mouth to stretch into a grin and leaned forward in his chair.

"You get your sanity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Citations: Some of the details and language in the second section of this chapter is taken from Goblet of Fire, Chapter 1, "The Riddle House."
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> Author's Notes: I hope that you were all able to figure out what was going on with the mind-melding sequence. I intended it to be confusing at first but to eventually become clearer for readers that it was going back and forth between Tom's and Voldemort's parallel memories.
> 
> I greatly appreciate all of the comments, kudos, and bookmarks/subscriptions. I felt terribly guilty every time I saw a new one in my inbox and still didn't have this chapter ready. I struggled massively with the first section and must have fiddled with it and entirely scrapped it and started over and then repeated the whole cycle a couple dozen times before I was happy with it. So if you enjoy it, please leave a review and let me know, so that I will feel guiltier the longer it takes me to update again.


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